Follow Me
by whiskeyandnight
Summary: Eight vignettes for eight companions, detailing how each of them found themselves caught up in the Courier's fantastic mess.
1. Boone

**A/N:** If this seems familiar, that's because this is another rewrite, of my very first fic that was written just over two years ago (although under a different title)! I'm pretty excited to be able to go back and see how much I've improved since then (the original was kind of #yikes). Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Near the beginning of his shift up in the dino's mouth, on a night that he was expecting to be the same as the rest before it, the old wooden door behind him creaks open without so much as a courtesy knock. He jerks to face the intruder, gripping his rifle tight and already prepared for the worst.

 _The worst_ ends up being a small, unimposing woman with wide eyes and an arm wrapped up in a flimsy makeshift sling. She looks about as taken aback as Boone feels, but that's probably more so due to the fact that she's got a gun aimed at her than anything.

He lowers his aim – just a little bit, not enough to make her think she's _welcome_ up in the sniper's nest – and scowls.

" _Goddammit_ ," he hisses through his teeth. "Don't sneak up on me like that. What do you want?"

She blinks, and then her eyes slowly scan over him, around him, all over. He has to force himself not to fidget at the way her gaze turns calculating. He doesn't want to be _calculated_.

"Expecting visitors?" she asks after a beat, with a small lopsided grin. She points at her bounded arm. "Trust me, with this arm there isn't much I could do even if I wanted to. Jackals popped my shoulder out with a grenade launcher, down past that ranger station," she adds, as if he cares.

She looks young, probably a few years younger than him, although he's never been good at gauging that sort of thing. He wonders, with an annoyed inward sigh, if this is another one of Jeannie May's attempts at playing matchmaker for him – which, as he's told her time and time again, he _really_ doesn't appreciate.

"Yeah," he says slowly, "I guess maybe I am expecting visitors. But not like you."

"Well, if that isn't the most cryptic thing I've heard in a while," she says cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the _leave me alone_ vibes that he's constantly giving off. Either that or she's just ignoring it.

"Why are you here?" he snaps. He has work to do, and she isn't helping. Not that his work ever requires effort much on his part most nights, but still. He'd rather be alone with his thoughts, however dark and empty they might be, than stuck with someone who he doesn't care about.

"I was checking out the dino and saw your rifle poking out of the mouth," she replies with a shrug – using only the shoulder that isn't in the sling. Her eyes sweep all around the inside of his small wooden room again, and to his chagrin, she is ultimately unfazed by his attitude. "I was curious."

"That's a bad reason to go around opening doors you're not supposed to be."

She laughs. He frowns – deeper than before.

"Buddy, that's the story of my life, right there," she says, and that's the most cryptic thing _he's_ ever heard, although he's not about to tell her that. "I'm sorry, trust me, I can tell you don't want me here. You might as well have a big sign that says _'get the hell out'_ all in lights above your head. I just got into town, you can't blame me for having no self control when it comes to a big wooden dinosaur."

And that makes him pause, for a reason beyond his understanding until he takes a moment to look at her, really _look_ at her. Several things, several _very important_ things that he hadn't seen before, register at once.

She's got dried blood and dirt splattered in small patches all over arms and torso; she hasn't had a chance to clean herself up (or she just doesn't care). The faded red fabric of her arm sling has most likely come from her shirt, which has been ripped at the midsection in a hasty attempt to handle her dislocated shoulder; she more than likely hasn't seen a doctor yet, which is a good thing considering how terrible Dr. Strauss can be sometimes. Over the shoulder of her good arm, she clutches a worn canvas bag – decently filled, if the tight stretch of the fabric is anything to go by; she isn't staying in the motel, at least not yet.

She must have just gotten into town, straight from the road. She would have missed the full effect of the Jeannie May Welcome Wagon, at this time of night.

Her smile slowly fades the longer he stares. It's _her_ turn to feel uncomfortable under a calculating gaze.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks warily. "At least, I think you are. It's really hard to tell behind the shades, you know."

And then, he makes a split-second decision.

* * *

She doesn't act that night, and with her dislocated arm, Boone doesn't blame her. On her first day in Novac, he hears that she's gotten her shoulder put back in its socket and that she's talked to just about everyone in town worth talking to. He's certain that no one knows that she'd met him before anyone else, and he'd like to keep it that way.

Truthfully, he doesn't expect anything to happen the first day. He gives her all the information he has – not much to go by – and sends her off to do whatever detective work needs to be done, but he's prepared to wait for as long as it takes, as long as she doesn't leave town. If anything, he prefers that she take her time. He needs her to be absolutely sure of her conclusion.

She's absolutely sure by her second night in Novac.

Less than an hour into his shift on the second night, he hears indecipherable voices that could be traders or residents out for a night stroll. Whoever it is seems to just be caught up in idle chatter. He knows they're coming closer to the dinosaur when the voices steadily grow louder, becoming clearer and clearer, and he can tell by now that it's two women. He's up and alert when he can distinctly make out the voice of the stranger – the Courier, she'd called herself. Much to his disappointment, whoever is accompanying her goes conveniently silent, and he can't tell who it is.

The urge to duck down and hide behind the large wooden teeth of the dino is overwhelming, until he reminds himself that he has _nothing_ to hide.

Whoever is coming certainly does, though. That is, if the Courier is right.

"What exactly is this about, again?"

The voice makes him take pause; the face, when it comes into view, makes him freeze up altogether. For a moment he thinks that maybe, after only two days of investigating, the Courier is wrong. Or maybe she's serving her own ulterior motive, or she's simply doing something else besides the task he's trusted her with. He doesn't want to believe it – and then, they're stopping in front of the dinosaur.

"I was walking outside here right before I came to get you, and I noticed that the thermometer was cracking," the Courier is saying.

Jeannie May Crawford looks irritated. Boone wonders if the Courier had to disrupt her dinner to get her to come, at this hour.

"Where? I don't see it."

"Right about," the Courier gently tugs Jeannie May into a _very_ specific spot, and points – noticeably below where Boone is quietly watching, stunned, "there. You see?"

"No, but I'm sure this could wait until tomorrow morning…"

"It's probably a little too dark now," the Courier interjects smoothly, "but I thought you should know as soon as possible, because it's a bit of a structural hazard, you know."

This gets Jeannie May's attention. It gets Boone's, too. The Courier catches his eye and gives him an almost imperceptible nod, and he realizes that she's buying him all the time he's going to get to make his decision. He fumbles through his shock and disbelief to steady his aim and look through his scope.

"It is?" Jeannie May asks, squinting harder to find the crack that doesn't exist and oblivious to the attention of the sniper.

"Oh, _yes_ ," the Courier continues. "Just from eyeballing it, I'd say a lot on the structural support of the dinosaur is based in the front, with the thermometer. If the crack where to get worse, and it broke, the whole thing would come crashing down."

" _Really_ ," Jeannie May breathes. "Well, we can't have that, the dinosaur is a huge attraction for Novac, it really adds to the charm of the town."

"I completely agree, it's just _such_ a lovely attraction for a _truly_ lovely town. That's why I thought it was so important that I show you."

"Where did you say it was? It's just so darn dark out here…"

"Right where my finger is pointing – no, don't step forward. It's not visible if you get right under it." As she guides Jeannie May back into the spot, she reaches behind her and pulls out a familiar beret. "There you go."

She dons Boone's faded beret and shoots him another meaningful look over Jeannie May's shoulder.

 _If you're going to do it, do it now_ , it says.

The corner of his mouth tugs up into a smirk. He isn't entirely sure why. Maybe it's the way the Courier's eyes turn cold when Jeannie May isn't looking at her. Maybe it's the way the fingers of her hand twitch towards the pistol on her belt, as though she's eager to do the job herself. Maybe it's just his own pure satisfaction in being able to finally get some sort of revenge for Carla.

It doesn't matter to him in the end. All that matters is that he finally knows exactly who tore his entire world to pieces.

He can't afford to hesitate. His shot rings out in the night, and Jeannie May unceremoniously falls into a heap onto the dirt. Boone lowers his rifle, unfazed by the sound, and knows that no one will be worried; everyone in town is used to hearing their snipers at work, and won't think anything of the shot he's just taken.

The Courier is hit by splatters of blood, but she doesn't seem to care as she takes a moment to spit disdainfully on the body after it hits the ground. She doesn't meet Boone's gaze at she removes his beret from her head and walks away without hurry.

He steps back from the dino's teeth, absorbing the moment to the best of his ability. He doesn't feel any different than he did before, and yet everything is different now. He's done it; he's sourced out who was responsible for everything that happened to Carla. The only goal he's had since she died, and he's fulfilled it.

He looks out between the dino's teeth and into the wasteland, at no spot in particular, and wonders what's next for him. He has no reason to stick around Novac anymore. And, quite frankly, he doesn't want to.

There's too many memories buried here, now.

* * *

When the Courier comes up to the mouth of the dino the second time, she has the decency to knock and wait for him to quietly allow her entrance. He turns around to face her and tries to read her as best as he can. Not a hint of remorse can be found in her joyless expression, and he's surprised to find that it solidifies the lack of regret he has for the murder of Jeannie May Crawford.

The Courier silently hands him back his beret, which he swaps out for his spare immediately, and wipes the blood from her face as best she can. Her efforts only serve to smudge red streaks over her skin. He offers her his canteen, which she takes gratefully and uses to wash most of the blood off.

"That's it, then," he says finally, when she's finished drying her face using the collar of her shirt. "How did you know?" And he's seriously hoping that she does, indeed, know.

She sighs and reaches into one of the pouches that decorate her belt. A single, damning sheet of paper is held out for him to take.

"Something just wasn't right, whenever she talked about… about, you know. I followed my hunch and broke into her safe in the lobby of the motel. Found the bill of sale."

"A hunch," he repeats, for lack of anything better to say. He doesn't move to take the paper from her; he can see the writing just fine from where he is, and he doesn't want to touch it.

The paper, and the words on it, transports him back to the slave auction where he saw his wife in front of a sea of scum in crimson, bidding and reaching for her like she and their unborn child were objects to be owned. All of what he'd seen, what he'd had to _do_ – or at least, what he'd _felt_ he had to do – was because one fucking sheet of paper that had been locked away by the very woman who'd given him and Carla a home. All of the subtly distasteful looks Jeannie May had given Carla that he never thought anything of, all of the smiles she'd given him after his wife's disappearance, all of the times she'd try to convince him to move on from Carla because of _his health, it's not healthy to cling to the past_ – it all comes back to him in one big, loud rush that sweeps over him, _overwhelms_ him.

He's absolutely miserable and unbelievably livid, a combination that he's become _more_ than familiar with in the past few months and has driven him to the brink of death too many times since Carla died. The piece of paper this strange, _strange_ woman is holding out to him is the embodiment of every one of those memories, of every ounce of alcohol he drowned himself in, of every drop of blood he made himself shed, of the burning helplessness and loneliness that's consumed his life completely, and…

He wants it gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

The sound of her clearing her throat snaps him out of his trance.

"Yeah, I get a lot of hunches. Sometimes, I wish I didn't." She eyes his shaking hands and takes his silence as a hint, tucking the paper back into the pouch. "I'm, uh... I'm sorry."

His answer is to dig into the bag he's brought up with him tonight. He shakes it and makes the caps inside jingle around.

"Here. This is all I can give. But I want you to have it. Please."

She takes the bag from him, hesitantly, and peers inside. He doesn't know how much is in there, truthfully, but whatever it is, it's not worth enough for what she's done for him.

"I can put these away and bring the bag back, if you want," she offers lamely.

"Don't bother." He almost wants to laugh, because he doesn't give a damn about the bag. He doesn't give a damn about anything anymore. "I think our dealings are done here."

She nods, but the way she lingers tells him that she isn't as done with him as he is with her.

"What will you do now?" she asks quietly. Her eyes scream pity, almost like everyone else's after Carla's disappearance, _poor Craig Boone lost his wife and child, how terrible_ , but he can't let himself be angry about it. She's helped him more in two nights than anyone else has in months.

"I don't know," he breathes with a deep sigh." I won't be staying, I know that. Don't see much point in anything right now, except hunting legionaries." He shifts his gaze further down, away from her sharp eyes, and stares at the dirt-caked rubber soles of her boots. "Maybe I'll wander, like you."

She doesn't say anything for a long moment, only nodding lightly without meeting his gaze. She chews on her bottom lip, taps her fingers lightly on the band of her leather belt. It makes him just a little uncomfortable, that she's lingering so awkwardly.

"Come with me," she blurts, just as he starts to open his mouth to dismiss her for good. "Let's go after the Legion together."

"You don't want to do that," he replies quickly, almost on impulse, with a bitter laugh. He curses inwardly when his warning only seems to feed her determination; she stands taller, meets his gaze, and crosses her arms.

"I thought snipers worked in teams," she quips matter-of-factly with a quirk of her brow. "What good are you going to be at hunting legionaries if you're all by yourself?"

He visibly pauses. He wants to be indignant, to stand by his decision, but for some reason, he's seriously considering her offer.

It must show, because she slowly starts smiling, like she knows she's won.

She isn't entirely wrong.

* * *

They leave in the middle of the night, after quickly hiding Jeannie May's body.

"Let the town wonder what happened to her. Let her disappearance forever be a mystery," the Courier insists. "Just like what she did to you."

He can't quite argue with that logic.

The Courier – Lilith, as she introduces herself once she puts the finishing touches on the unmarked grave of Jeannie May Crawford – informs him of her agenda as she's already leading him away from Novac: she's on her way to Boulder City, tracking down a man who had stolen from and nearly killed her. It's only then that Boone catches sight of the harsh scar on her forehead that's just barely being covered by her bangs.

He simply nods. He doesn't have anywhere specific to be, and he's content with whatever she wants to do – as long as she follows through on her promise to kill any legionaries they come across in the process. It's strange, having a companion again. He's isolated himself so much in the past few months that having someone else around to look after him, and for him to look after in turn, seems like a distant, foreign memory.

With his ties to Novac effectively severed, he doesn't even feel a hint of remorse over abandoning his post as the nighttime sniper. Instead, he feels something that he hasn't felt in a long time: purpose. There's a strange pull that makes him feel like wherever the Courier is going is where he's meant to be. He thinks he may have found his final repayment. He's going to do everything he can to protect her, until his judgment finally, _finally_ comes.

The pull feels like fate. It makes him think; maybe she should have been who he was expecting all along.

* * *

 **A/N:** All of the chapters will be in order of who the Courier met (according to my own plot). Stay tuned for everyone else's story!


	2. Veronica

Being above ground comes with many perks, Veronica has found.

She gets to catch the warm bloom of sunrises and the colorful fade of sunsets, gets to soak in the sun and bask in the glow of the moonlight, gets to encounter different creatures (which really only counts as a perk if they're friendly), and she gets to meet and see all sorts of interesting folks that travel through the trading post day in and day out.

She gets to see _life_.

Not many people can say that they truly enjoy being out in the hot sandy wastes, and she can understand that; for all the beauty that exists, there is an equal amount of ugliness, and it can often be hard to see past one to find the other. After living half of her life in cold metal bunkers, though, Veronica can honestly say that she loves it all, through thick and thin.

She spends the majority of her time above ground at the 188 trading post, and not just because it's her job to barter for supplies to bring back to the bunker every few days. No, Veronica gets her own personal enjoyment from being at the post; she loves to listen to the tales of anyone willing to share, because – no matter who they are or where they came from – other people always seem to have something interesting to say. Unlike her and her stern brothers and sisters locked away in the bunker (she loves them, really, but they can get kind of stale after a while), these people have countless stories to tell about where they're going, where they'd been, and what they'd seen along the way.

In the end, it reminds her that every single person she'd encountered has had the chance to see and experience so much more than she has since the Brotherhood first laid its eyes on Helios One. It makes her want to see more of the wastes than she'd ever been allowed, to see what kind of life she can make for herself – and maybe even what kind of life she could make for the Brotherhood.

Despite her longing for adventure, Veronica knows that she can't reasonably go wandering the wastes, and not because her family in the bunker would miss her. Her role as a "procurement specialist" isn't nearly as important as the title might have it seem, especially since she hardly ever brings back as much food and supplies as the few other patrols and individuals that are allowed to leave the bunker. By comparison, her meager contributions are admittedly laughable, but no one bothers to reprimand her for it because she knows that, for the most part, her specific work assignment is strictly meant to keep her occupied and out of everyone's hair.

No, her real problem is something that she hates to admit: as much as she loves her dear, precious power fist, she's been told time and time again that it would never be enough to protect her if she were all on her own. And that's the kicker, right there – she's all alone. Even if the bunker wasn't under a strict lockdown, she's certain that no one would even _begin_ to entertain the thought of wandering around the wastes with her and helping anyone that isn't part of the Brotherhood.

So instead of having her own adventure, she settles for lingering around the trading post, sometimes for days on end, chatting up anyone who bothers to take the time and talk with her. Through these friendly individuals, she's been able to get a more detailed understanding of what's what, who's who, and just about everything that _really_ needs to be known about the happenings of the Mojave.

Her life may be dull, but the world around her never was – if there's one thing she's learned, it's that there's _always_ something happening in the Mojave.

She just never thought that _something happening_ would ever happen to her.

* * *

She's busy chatting idly with Michelle, the woman who helps run the Slop & Shop, when she hears it: her name, softly echoing up from down below the bridge. Immediately, she recognizes that it's the little boy that lives down there, among his random assortment of trinkets – the Forecaster. She's friendly with the child, of course, but he normally never calls to her and it manages to catch her somewhat off guard.

She pauses, glancing in his direction although she can't actually see him from where she is. A beat passes, but she doesn't hear the Forecaster say her name again.

"I'm not crazy, right?" she asks Michelle finally, because she's not wholly certain that he ever actually called her in the first place now. "Did you hear him, too?"

"Yeah, I heard it," Michelle confirms. She pulls a damp rag from where it's hung over her shoulder and begins wiping down the countertop of the small shop's bar. "He might need help, or something. Check it out, just to be safe. I have to get back to work, anyway."

"Alrighty, then," Veronica grunts, hopping off of her stool. "I guess I'll talk to you later?"

"Of course. Highlight of my day."

Veronica grins and shoots finger guns at Michelle as she backs away from the bar.

She peers down to where the Forecaster can always be found, only to see that he's talking to the two people she'd seen come through earlier; a man with an unmistakable red beret and a woman with long, dark hair and an arm in a sling. It's curious that he'd be talking about her with them, but what's more is that his device, his 'medicine' that prevents him from telling his cryptic yet startlingly accurate fortunes, is _off_.

 _I'm in someone's fortune!_ , is her first thought, quickly followed by the second, quieter thought that says, _but why would you be?_ She brushes off that second thought, mainly because she's _insanely_ curious about whether her personal fortunes that she's gotten from the boy have anything to do with these people. Unfortunately, as she leans in to listen harder, Michelle turns up the volume of her small radio and begins humming along, drowning out anything Veronica might have been able to pick up.

Not one to accept defeat, Veronica tries to listen in by moving closer and walking along the stone railing of the overpass, but by the time she's within a decent range, the Forecaster is strapping his 'medicine' back on.

"Damn," she breathes, smacking the rail with her non-lethal hand. She watches them only for a moment longer, as they say their thanks and their farewells, before she slowly retreats back towards her stool at the Slop & Shop. When Michelle raises a questioning brow at her, Veronica can only shrug.

"Nothing after all, I guess," she lies. Michelle only spends a second to be confused, before she brushes it off and walks out back to the shop's storage area.

 _That's okay_ , Veronica thinks as she anxiously taps her fingers against the surface of the bar. She might still have a chance to figure out what's up with these mysterious new circumstances; she just has to play it totally cool. All she has to do is get that woman's attention and score a chance to casually talk to her about the Forecaster's strange fortunes, without seeming like it was a Big Deal.

Simple. She can do that. _Casual_ might as well be Veronica Santangelo's middle name. Right after Renata, anyway.

She's so focused on her plotting that she almost doesn't notice that the strangers had already made it up the hill and are now seated at a nearby wooden table, almost straight ahead of her Veronica is sitting. Veronica jumps in her seat, just a little bit, when she locks gazes with the dark-haired woman. The other woman does not look away, as people usually do when they've been caught accidentally staring at someone; she has a purpose. Unable to think of anything else to do, Veronica simply waves with a small and (hopefully) inviting smile.

The woman breaks their eye contact to murmur something to her NCR friend, to which he merely nods, and then she's up and coming over to the store's counter, where Veronica is sitting and trying not to gape at her dumb luck.

 _Well_ , _that was easier than expected._

Taking a few precious seconds to actually _look_ at the strange woman of fortune, Veronica immediately takes note of a few important details, which she hadn't thought to do before. There's a rifle strapped across the other woman's back, there's dried blood and dirt that cover some of the exposed parts of her body, and she's sporting some decently fresh bruises – angry splotches of yellow and purple that mar her dark, tanned skin – along one of her arms.

She looks absolutely beaten up, like she just took a tumble down the wrong side of Black Mountain while fist-fighting a gecko or five, but she doesn't seem to be all that hindered by her condition. In other words, she looks _perfect_ for what Veronica needs. Her mind is instantly filled with fanciful thoughts of traipsing the wastes with this stranger and Beret Guy over there, becoming hardened and seasoned in wasteland lifestyle, and maybe even making a few differences along the way.

"So," the woman starts, as soon as she reaches Veronica. She doesn't bother to sit. "That kid down there forecasted you being in my future."

"Wow." And then, because Veronica truly has no self-control, she adds, "Is that a pick-up line? If it is, it's a good one. Consider me swooned."

"Oh my god." The other woman laughs, a hearty sound that makes Veronica smile and feel more at ease with the strange situation. _So far, so good_. "No, I'm afraid it's not. You were literally in my fortune, in so many words. Is that a thing he usually does?"

"Well, if it is, you're the first one to act on it."

"Then call me Miss Fortune, huh?"

Veronica smiles and thinks of a million things she can say that will make her come off as friendly and eloquent in order to further gain the stranger's approval.

What _actually_ comes out of her mouth is a different story entirely.

"No offense, but you look like you've traveled a long way down some bad roads." Nailed it. "Where'd you come from?"

 _Good recovery, Veronica. Top notch, truly._

To her surprise, the woman laughs again. At least they share a sense of humor. So far, anyway.

"The grave," she answers cryptically. With a loose hand gesture, she adds, "Among other places. You know how it is."

 _No, not really_.

"Huh," Veronica says instead, "Well, in that case I take it back. You look pretty good, given the circumstances."

"Yeah," the other woman agrees with a nod. "I have to say, 'alive' is a great look. Can't seem to shake it off, either."

Veronica laughs, although she's not entirely sure if the situation warrants it. She has no idea what to make of a comment like that, because she can't tell if it's a joke or not.

"Well, welcome back to the land of the living, then, Miss Fortune," Veronica chirps, holding an eager hand out to the woman. "I'm Ve-"

The woman interrupts her with a sharp hiss as she gives Veronica a firm handshake, immediately pulling back and rubbing her shoulder with a wince. Veronica jerks her hand away like she's touched a burning stove and stares, unmoving, afraid for a moment that she's pulled the poor woman's arm out or something. Which, all things considered, would be a really cool ability to have, but now was _not_ the time for that to start happening.

"Sorry, sorry," the woman assures with a pained laugh, carefully rubbing her shoulder. "I dislocated my shoulder a few days ago, it's still healing."

"Oh, jeez, I'm so sorry!" Veronica mentally berates herself for being so _great_ at meeting people sometimes. Accidentally hurting someone upon introduction absolutely screams, _be my friend!_

Instead of politely running away like Veronica half-expects, the woman gives another small laugh again and waves a dismissive hand, as if she were sweeping away Veronica's apologies. "No, really, don't worry about it. It's not your fault at all. I'm just stupid and forgot to be careful. Anyway, you were saying?"

"Oh, uh." Veronica blinks, unsure of whether she should continue her botched introduction or try and find this woman something to ease the pain. In the end, she figures that the woman probably knows what she's doing and would have gotten help by now (hopefully), and Veronica picks up from where she left off. "I'm Veronica. I… live in a hole in the ground."

"Well, Veronica, who lives in a hole in the ground," the woman says with a gentle smile, "my name is Lilith, but the name that people are spreading is the Courier, so that works just fine. I used to live in a hole in the ground, too, so we've got that in common."

 _The Courier_ , Veronica thinks, and doesn't that sound mysterious and… somehow familiar. She doesn't think much of it because she's too busy thinking about that last bit.

"The grave. Right."

The Courier's expression shifts and she looks thoughtful for the briefest of moments. "Oh, yeah. Huh. Then I guess I've lived in two different holes in the ground, how about that?"

Veronica doesn't know what to say to that, because she's certain that their _holes in the ground_ are not the same, but there are very few others she can think of.

It's only then that Veronica realizes that she's missed arguably the most important detail about the Courier: wrapped around the majority of her forearm is a big, obnoxious hulk of metal and knobs and lights that is unmistakably a Pip-Boy. Seeing someone wearing one is rare these days, from what she's gathered. This must mean… something, right?

"Oh," Veronica says lamely, "I see." Does that make the Courier one of the few former Vault folk that still lives in the area? If so, how long has she been above ground? Does she really have as much wasteland experience as Veronica initially thought? After a few beats of silence, Veronica knows that she probably won't be given an explanation unless she asks for one – and maybe not even then.

"I don't mean to intrude," a voice intrudes, and they both turn to see Michelle walking back out from the storage area with a boxful of new foods and drinks, "but did you say that you're a courier?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You wouldn't happen to be-"

"The one from Goodsprings?" the Courier finishes, ducking her head. "Yes, ma'am."

" _Wow_ ," Michelle breathes in awe, and she puts the box down on the bar to fully lean over the counter with interest. "So you're _the_ Courier. I heard about… how's your…," Michelle gestures weakly at her head, and suddenly the pieces click together for Veronica, who's been clueless up until this moment.

She's been chatting up the courier who was shot in the head in Goodsprings and actually _survived_.

"I'm doing just fine," the Courier answers with a gentle, polite smile that doesn't match the nature of the subject. "Thank you for asking."

Veronica remembers the radio reports, and Mr. New Vegas announcing that some package courier had somehow made a full recovery from a bullet to the head after a robbery. The reports were only a week ago. It sends her mind reeling, and suddenly the Pip-Boy and any doubts that it gave Veronica don't matter anymore.

"I've heard about you, on the radio and just… because of the people coming through," Michelle continues on to tell the Courier. "They're talking about you, you know. The things you've done."

"Mostly good things, I hope?"

"Mostly," Michelle replies with a coy smile. "Like how you cleared out the Powder Gangers from Primm and rescued the sheriff."

"Deputy. I did promise to look into their sheriff issue, though."

Michelle whistles. "Can't imagine doing anything like that after what you've been through."

"What can I say? I'm a woman on a mission."

"Must be a hell of a mission," Veronica thinks out loud by accident, and she realizes her mistake too late. The Courier only laughs that oddly amused laugh of hers and nods.

"Well, listen," Michelle straightens up from the bar and wipes her hands, "I have to get back to work, but if you'd like a drink or something, it's on the house. Just for the trouble you've been through. My dad and I used to be set up in Primm, you know. We left when the Powder Gangers came in, but… well, it means a lot to me that you'd help the townsfolk with that, despite… everything."

"I appreciate the gesture, but my companion and I were actually just about to have some lunch of our own," the Courier says, and she gestures back towards the table where the First Recon man is still sitting, watching them intently – or not, it's hard for Veronica to tell what's behind the sunglasses. She turns to face Veronica again and asks, "Why don't you come sit with us a while? We can talk about fortunes and forecasts."

Veronica shakes off the awkward feeling that threatens to make her stutter and fumble and look like a fool in situations where she actually wants to _impress_ someone, and puts on her best smile.

"I think I'd like that very much."

* * *

She leaves with the Courier not an hour and a half later, after they talk about this and that, which is mostly idle chit-chat with a sprinkle of serious information. The Courier tells her a little bit about herself and reveals that her _mission_ , as she'd put it earlier, is to reach Vegas, find the man who shot her, and retrieve the package that he stole from her. Veronica shows off her mighty power fist after the Courier broaches the subject of her joining them in their travels, to prove to the Courier that, despite her small size, she has _something_ to bring to the table. As they seem ready to set off again, Veronica takes the opportunity to come clean about her affiliations with the Brotherhood.

"So you really don't mind? The whole," Veronica spares a glance at the near-silent First Recon man, Boone, and hesitates, "Brotherhood thing?"

She desperately hopes that the nature of current NCR/Brotherhood relations won't affect them as individuals. From what the Courier has told her, Boone isn't with the NCR anymore, but she just has to be sure.

"I don't. Boone?"

"Don't care."

"Then that settles it." The Courier grins, and holds out a hand to Veronica. "Welcome to the party."

Veronica gladly takes the woman's hand, this time careful to not move _at all_ lest she accidentally hurt the Courier again and be immediately booted from the party, which is _seriously_ the opposite of what she wants, now more than ever. While she's happy to simply travel with the Courier and Boone – who she sees as a _tremendous_ perk in this companionship, given the combat skills he undoubtedly possesses – and to aid the Courier in whatever ways she can, Veronica has her own agenda to serve.

She wants, _needs_ , to see firsthand how the people and communities of the Mojave are getting by, to see what they're doing to thrive, and to see how much it differs from what the Brotherhood is doing. As much as she loves her family, Veronica knows that their ways and ideals are going to accomplish nothing except the silent end of their chapter, and she thinks – _hopes_ – that if she were to get out there and learn more about the methods and ideas and perspectives that are actually _working_ … well, she might be able to save the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel.

She may have once been a naïve girl from California with stars in her eyes, but Veronica is determined prove her worth and take action, both for the Courier and for her subterranean family.


	3. Rex

**A/N:** It's been a while, I know. I'm posting two chapters today due to Rex's being so short. You know, because he's a dog.

* * *

One day, a new person starts coming to visit Rex and the King, right in their home.

The King likes her, so Rex likes her. Rex tends to like most people, but it also helps that this new person always gives Rex belly rubs, sometimes brings new kinds of treats just for him that always taste good, and he's never once caught her wearing a hat.

It's all good enough for Rex, and then one day the King decides that he likes her so much that he tells Rex to go with and protect her during her travels. Rex doesn't understand why, and he's not too fond of the man who wears a hat that occasionally comes with her, but he's happy to go along with his new friend. She's always been so nice to him, and once he spends more time with her he learns that she knows how to comfort him when the pain starts, just like the King always would. It makes those terrible moments just a little more bearable.

The best part, though, is that now Rex gets even _more_ treats from her. He thinks one day he might be able to sniff out the source, too.

All-in-all, Rex feels welcome in this new pack, and they make him happy. For this, Rex is willing to forgive even the one that offends him by wearing a hat all the time.

And that was that.


	4. Arcade

**A/N:** Fun fact - Arcade is my favorite companion. The others are REALLY close behind him, though.

* * *

It's not until the fifth time the Courier comes by the Fort that she finally notices him. Arcade, however, has been keeping tabs on her since the moment she walked in.

* * *

The first time she steps foot in the Fort is early in the morning one day, when she's on business for the King – which Arcade only knows because, more often than not, he's got nothing better to do but to listen in on the conversations of others. It's a habit that he deems necessary – he's afraid for the day that a stranger walks in to the Fort demanding that he be turned over for his affiliation with the Enclave – and yet, he knows that he really shouldn't be doing it _all the time_ like he does.

At this point, adding one more instance of snooping (something he'd _never_ admit to doing out loud) to the pile isn't going to matter, though.

And so he snoops on.

He listens, with varying levels of clarity depending on where he stands pretending to do something productive, as she talks with some of the victims of a recent attack in another part of Freeside. She proves to be a lot more patient with the two men than Arcade would have been, given how they spend most of the conversation talking in circles, but eventually she gets exactly what she wants from them – even Arcade is a little surprised to hear that NCR folks were behind the attack, although once he thinks about it, it really _shouldn't_ surprise him.

What really worries him, though, is that he knows this stranger is going to go back to the King with this news, and if there's anything he's learned in his time at the Fort, it's that the Kings and the NCR _don't_ mix well. Freeside doesn't need an outright war between the two groups, not now.

When she's done with that, the stranger chats amicably with Julie for some time. At some point, she even asks if the Followers have any jobs that need doing, going so far as to promise the sobering and return of Bill Ronte and Jacob Hoff.

Arcade snorts quietly to himself at the thought, from his unassuming position at a distance from them. If he's being completely honest, he's not entirely sure what this random woman could possibly do that hasn't already been done to try and rehabilitate Ronte and Hoff. More importantly, he doesn't even know how true to her word she could be. Who is she, even? What are her motives?

He's seen a lot of different types of people in his time, and everyone has this _look_ about them that gives away what their game is. This particular stranger's entire look screams _mercenary_ more than anything, but the really confusing detail is that she's accompanied by a stoic man wearing a telltale red beret. He knows that an active member of First Recon is not likely to be found away from McCarran, babysitting some merc, but it doesn't stop Arcade from suspecting some sort of NCR-related ulterior motive.

What she could _possibly_ be doing for them by helping the Followers, he has no idea, but he decides from this moment onward to be critical of everything she does for them. It's nothing personal, and ordinarily he'd trust Julie's judgment, but her preoccupation with keeping the Fort up and running has taken up more and more of her time and energy, and _someone_ needs to make sure their relations don't add tension to the already delicate situation Freeside is in.

And so, from that moment on, he starts to keep a casual eye on this new 'friend' whenever she visits.

* * *

The second time is the very same day, after Ronte and Hoff, through some sort of miracle, come back to the outpost hours later. They both immediately seek Julie out, eager to receive the help and treatments they need to recover from their respective addictions. In turn, they're equally eager to offer any kind of help and service they can for the Followers again once they're rehabilitated, like they used to.

Arcade is mildly but pleasantly surprised by their alarmingly quick return, and from the look on her face when they both stroll through the large wooden doors of the Fort within minutes of each other, so is Julie. Their return will lead to greater productivity for the Followers, especially with Hoff back to aid in the manufacturing of detox chems.

Once Julie finishes talking to Ronte and Hoff and sends them to see about the first steps of their treatment, Arcade waits a minute or two before casually approaching her.

"So, they're back for good?" he asks, ever nonchalant.

"That's the plan," Julie says, scribbling something down onto her clipboard. Probably writing up new duties and schedules that will accommodate the two high-priority recoverees. "I'm hoping we can stick to it this time. Those two are invaluable in their own different ways. I'd hate to lose them again."

"I remember," he comments distantly, glancing around the Fort for any trace of the stranger. "So, that woman, she really kept her word?"

"That's what Bill and Jacob both say. She took a lot of time to sit down and talk with each of them. Apparently, she knows a thing or two about medicine, herself. Appealed to the scientists in both of them." Something in Julie's tone reflects Arcade's own subdued surprise at the notion.

"Huh," is all Arcade can say in response. He doesn't know what to make of that.

"Hey, as long as it provides results, I'm not complaining. I just wish I had more to offer her as payment, this was a big step forward for us."

He nods his head in agreement, and waits a beat before he gets down to the real question on his mind.

"It's not every day that someone comes in and offers their help like that, for so little," he starts, and something in his tone immediately gets Julie's full attention. "I just mean… who is she? Is she working for anyone? What do we know about her?"

 _Too many questions, too fast. Nice going, Gannon._

"Not much. She hasn't been in Freeside for more than a day, from what she's told me, but she seems like a standard mercenary. No real ties, taking any jobs that she comes by. We had a long conversation about that."

"Mercenaries normally like being paid in caps," Arcade points out, "and lots of them."

"They do," she concedes with a nod of her head. "I guess we found ourselves one of the ones that actually has a conscience."

"I guess."

His tone is not one of someone who's been convinced, and Julie pierces him with her gaze at that, all-too knowing for his comfort. "She's not part of the NCR. Her… friend isn't active duty, either, from what I've gathered. Don't worry."

Arcade is still worried, because he simply is who he is, but Julie's assurances help to take a little bit of heaviness off of his shoulders that, he realizes, had been more of a burden than he'd thought.

He thinks that his wariness of the NCR might be bordering on the line of irrationality.

Of course, some of that weight returns when Arcade hears that, during that very same evening when he hadn't been around to see, the strange woman come back to check up on Ronte and Hoff – and left after recruiting the ghoul guard, Beatrix, to work at the Atomic Wrangler as a prostitute on behalf of the Garrets. When he (casually) asks around about it, he hears rumors that the woman – the Courier, as she's being called – is doing other, equally seedy work for the Garrets. Specifically, bounty hunter jobs, which seems to fall more in line with the type of work mercenaries usually do.

He can't help it when his suspicion resurfaces in a new form, put on edge at the idea of the Garrets having any foothold in the Followers' business.

 _If it's not one thing, it's another_ , Arcade thinks. _There's always a catch._

* * *

The third and fourth times are to arrange and settle negotiations between the Followers and a stable, reliable supplier in order to increase the outpost's chemical stocks, one of the first things that Hoff asks for Julie to work on during his recovery process.

Arcade feels… like there's nothing wrong at all with what the Courier is doing, this time. He thinks that maybe he's getting too obsessed with the goings on of one lone mercenary, but he's willing to blame that on the fact that his job at the Fort yields little results and gives him too much free time to overthink everything.

Of course, nothing is ever as simple as he wishes it could be, and quite frankly Arcade is getting tired of this emotional whiplash he's getting from a woman he's never formally met.

The Courier comes back with an offer from a potential supplier – who turn out to be none other than the Garret twins, A.K.A. the two who were at least 70% of the reason why the Followers are so overwhelmed and under-supplied when it comes to keeping Freeside sober.

The deal, of course, comes with a catch, which is to be expected when doing business with people like the Garrets. In exchange for the supply of raw materials to make their chems, the Followers must agree that they will provide regular maintenance for the twins' stills – something that, when Julie gathers everyone to talk that night about whether they should accept the deal or not, Arcade argues would only increase the Garret's ability to drown the residents of Freeside in liquor.

"Even _with_ a steady supply of detox chems," Arcade insists, "the Garrets are just going to be able to make purer, _stronger_ alcohol! Proportionally, the rates of intoxication and alcoholism versus our ability to provide those recovery services will stay the same, just at higher levels!"

The _last_ thing they needed was to escalate and perpetuate Freeside's addiction problems on top of everything else, and that's all Arcade saw coming out of this deal. He's surprised to see others murmuring and nodding their heads in agreement with him, and some of them bring up their own arguments and thoughts on the matter.

"I appreciate everyone speaking out and providing more perspective on this," Julie finally says, and while she is very open to alternate opinions, he knows that she's already made up her mind. "However, I think it's important that we consider the difference between cleaning up alcoholics and cleaning up drug addicts, because it actually takes less effort on our part, chemically, to help the former than the latter. It could actually help up stock up on the supplies we need to help those drug addicts, and isn't that arguably the greater threat to Freeside right now?"

The room, somehow, is silent. Arcade can see his own feelings about the whole situation in the faces of his fellow Followers. The entire trade seems to be the epitome of a double-edged sword.

"If that doesn't appeal to you," she adds after a pause, "then you should also know that a greater stockpile of chems means more caps. The Garrets, however shady at times, can also be counted on as reliable suppliers, so long as we hold up our end of the deal… well, we should be fine."

 _Probably_ , is the part she doesn't say, but in hangs in the air all the same.

Despite the general feeling of wariness that everyone seems to feel about the whole situation, the next day Julie is telling the Courier to pass along the Followers' formal acceptance of the Garrets' offer. No more than an hour later, a runner shows up at the Fort with an admittedly impressive amount of clean chems, as a display of the Garrets' good faith in their newfound arrangement. Julie seems pleased with the surprise gesture, and she looks happier than she's been in quite some time. That, at the very least, is enough to help everyone else relax – not too much, of course, but at least a little bit.

As soon as the Followers' output of medicinal chems begins to increase (with the help of Hoff, who's already becoming more involved in the chem manufacturing processes, despite Julie's insistence that he focus on recovering), they send their best maintenance worker over to the Wrangler to work on the Garrets' stills. With their new stock of chems, Julie expects that the Followers will soon be able to more efficiently and effectively treat their existing patients and any incoming addicts they might receive.

Suddenly the deal – and the work of the Courier – doesn't seem quite so bad to Arcade.

* * *

The fifth and final time comes days after the Followers-Garret trade agreement, and this time she'd preceded by a whole new kind of reputation – she's the first living person to receive a personal invitation and access to the Lucky 38 casino on the Strip. Talk of the development has Arcade insanely curious, yet again, of _what the hell the deal is with this woman_.

This visit, however, is different than the rest. She's still accompanied by the former-First Recon man, and a robed woman Arcade hasn't seen with her yet, but the most notable part is that she has the King's dog, Rex, with her now. Like everyone else at the outpost, Arcade is aware of the poor dog's condition, but he didn't think the King would ever so easily let his dog go anywhere with someone else. Arcade thinks it might have to do with the fit that the King had thrown last time he'd come in to ask Julie about potential treatment.

Arcade chooses to idly linger near where the Courier is talking with Julie in hushed tones, both of their expressions turning somber when the Courier gestures to Rex. The dog whimpers and rubs his head against the side of the Courier's leg. She reaches down to absently stroke behind his ears, an absent gesture that makes the dog go quiet, at the very least.

It's easy to tell that, as Arcade suspected, the King has sent the Courier to Julie to seek help for Rex once more. A noble cause, and it was smart of the King to send someone with more patience and a solid connection with the Followers, but Arcade doubts that this visit will bear any more fruit than the last one had, not unless Julie remembers about Henry in Jacobstown, because Arcade can't really risk saying it himself and anyone possibly learning of his connection to any of the Remnants.

In the middle of his not-eavesdropping, someone taps him on the shoulder. He almost jumps, and realizes that he's blatantly been scribbling nonsensical circular patterns down onto the clipboard he's holding as cover. He clutches the clipboard to his chest and turns to see the Courier's robed companion next to him with a shy smile. He'd never even seen or heard her walk over to him.

"Hi!" she chirps, startling him further with her seemingly immediate amicability. "I'm Veronica."

"Arcade," he replies after a moment of hesitation, holding his hand for her to take, out of courtesy. She shakes it happily, and he has no idea why she's chosen him, of all people, to strike up a conversation with. He can already tell that she must be a perpetually perky individual, but he can't help but feel a tad bit wary of the intimidating pneumatic gauntlet she's sporting on her free hand.

"Nice to meet you, Arcade! Love the name." She follows his gaze to her gauntlet and laughs. "Don't worry, I'm not here to start throwing punches. Yet. I don't know, we'll see how this goes, yeah?"

Arcade doesn't know how to respond to that, so he does what he normally does when he's uncomfortable in conversations: he gives a shaky, somewhat nervous laugh, and shuffles back a few steps.

"Hey, so, you're with these guys, right? The Followers of the Apocalypse? You look like a scientist."

"Yes, I am," he replies slowly. He meets her eyes again, warm and brown and not at all worthy of the paranoia he wants to feel, and sees only curiosity. It makes him feel more at ease, and he decides to let his hackles down. There's no reasonable need to be rude, after all, even if he's a bad conversationalist. "What gave it away? The coat?"

"Well, that and the _I don't want to talk to anyone but I'm going to listen in anyway_ vibe I was getting from you."

Arcade can't stop the startled, embarrassed laugh that bubbles out at Veronica's oddly accurate read of him.

"Was it that obvious? I guess I need to work on that."

"I'm sure that, with a little more practice, you'll get there," Veronica laughs. "Anyway, I actually wanted to ask you some quick questions about the Followers before I have to go, if you have the time."

"Uh." Arcade's mind suddenly goes blank on everything he's learned about the Followers during the years he's been with them. "Sure, I'll do my best."

"Awesome! Cool. Okay, so, my first question…"

"Hey, Veronica," someone calls then, and Veronica's expression immediately shifts into something that Arcade can only call a pout. "We're done here, you ready to head out?"

Their attention is pulled towards the direction of the voice, and Arcade jumps when he sees who's walking over to them. He doesn't know why he didn't expect this to happen, what with him entertaining Veronica, someone he _knew_ was with the Courier, the way that he'd been doing. It was bound to bring him to the Courier's attention, what was he thinking?

Just like that, for the first time in the few days that he'd been observing her activity with the Followers, Arcade locks eyes with the Courier. For some reason, he never imagined that he'd actually have to meet her.

Within the next few seconds, however, Arcade is finally introduced to the Courier – and whether he likes it or not, he's quickly sucked into an admittedly pleasant conversation with her. They spend an alarming amount of time talking, and when he finds them laughing over the same brand of sardonic humor and actually gets to pick her brain on the current events in Freeside, Arcade realizes suddenly that his initial distrust for her was probably even more unfounded than he thought.

All in all, the Courier is… not so bad, in his book. He sees potential in the young woman, especially when they start talking about medical practices and other scientific pursuits and he sees that she really _does_ possess no small amount of intellect that could only come from study.

In hindsight, it's one of those ideas that seems _really good_ at first, but once he commits, Arcade realizes he's in _way_ over his head. It's not at all the life he ever expected to live, filled with experiences he never thought he'd have, people he never thought he'd meet, fights he never thought he'd fight, and friends he never thought he'd make.

But somehow, by the end of the day, Arcade is suckered into joining the Courier.

And he doesn't regret a single moment.

(For the most part.)


	5. Lily

**A/N:** This chapter is now twice the size it was when I first posted this fic like three years ago, wow.

* * *

When the nice young lady first shows up in Jacobstown, accompanied by a nervous-looking man and a funny sort of dog at her side, Leo immediately begins whispering a list of all the gruesomely terrible things that could be done to them (but specifically the woman, who makes her presence more known) , if Lily would only let him. As some of the few humans that are brave enough to step foot in mutant safe haven, they quickly became a target of Leo's insatiable bloodlust. It's easier to pick fights and tear apart tiny, weak humans than the other hulking mutants, after all.

Lily is quick to put her foot down on the matter, though; no one is getting hurt so long as they bear no ill will towards their town or their kin, not on Lily's watch, and she firmly tells Leo as much. And so the newcomers come and go into the lodge without a single hair out of place on their lovely little heads, and Lily is content to continue tending to her bighorners.

* * *

It's quite some time before they return, but when they come back, Marcus catches them at the gate. Lily worries over whether or not Marcus is caving in to Keene's constant bitter complaints about the new humans, especially when the woman nods before promptly spinning on her heel to walk right back out.

But then, the woman comes back, and Lily pays special attention to what's going on this time as she idly pets a bighorner.

"They shouldn't be bothering you again," she hears, almost indiscernible over the distance between them and her pen. "If they do, you just send word to me. I'll take care of it."

Oh, and isn't that lovely? The nice young woman went as far as to help deal with the rude men that had been pestering their settlement for the past few days. Marcus's words to her are soft and grateful, and Lily feels the same way; those men had wanted to cause nothing but trouble, as far as she could tell, and their absence will help Marcus focus more on keeping Keene in line.

Despite it all, Leo still doesn't like her, simply for being such a small, fragile-looking thing in comparison to Lily and the rest of the mutants, and he keeps encouraging Lily to use her enormous blade to chop the unsuspecting woman into tiny little pieces. Lily, in no mood to be arguing with Leo in light of their well-meaning visitors, simply takes some of her medicine – less than Dr. Henry has prescribed, always less – and shuts him up.

Like the first visit, the stranger swiftly makes her way to the lodge. She glances in Lily's direction for a brief moment on her way in, and it makes Lily glad that Leo has been put to sleep for the time being. He would never stand for such attention.

And then, after she leaves once more, Lily overhears Keene telling another Nightkin about the woman's endeavors to help their local human doctor create new, better Stealth Boys. Suddenly Leo decides on his own when to quiet down, and gives Lily some peace; however, he now chooses to murmur agitatedly every now and then about how the little human isn't working _fast enough_.

It sounds like an echo when Lily hears the very same thing from Keene.

The woman comes and goes on several more occasions, and she makes the same stops every time: she talks to Marcus about how well Jacobstown is faring on the way in, goes to the lodge to do whatever it is she does to help Dr. Henry, and then asks Marcus if there's anything she can bring with her next time on her way out.

Lily doesn't care what Leo says. Their new human seems nice.

* * *

During one visit, Leo decides to be particularly ornery, ranting about how the woman – Courier, they call her, and Lily thinks that's an odd name – keeps coming and going as she pleases without bringing them what really matters: Stealth Boys.

Lily is ready to give him another stern talking-to on leaving the poor girl alone when she feels a shiver ripple down her spine.

Someone is watching her.

Lily looks up from her bighorners to see the blond man in the white coat staring curiously from the front porch of the lodge. She feels warm and fuzzy, like the world has suddenly become over-saturated with bright colors and happy thoughts. She would smile, if she was capable of doing so.

"Jimmy!" she calls, and he startles where he stands. "My, how you've grown up! Come over here and chat with your grandma!"

Jimmy looks almost hesitant to join her in the pen with the bighorners, which is just plain silly of him, because her bighorners are so well-mannered that they wouldn't hurt a fly. He seems to understand this, because he finally decides to come over.

He introduces himself as _Arcade_ , and Lily feels like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over her head when she remembers that the only piece of her grandchildren that still exists is the holotape she always carries on her person. Her heart drops from the disappointment.

Still, the yellow of his hair reminds her of her little Jimmy, so Lily likes him.

Lily introduces him to Leo and the bighorners – he gives her an odd look at one point, which Lily thinks is peculiar, because she's certain that bighorners are common around these parts.

Arcade asks about how Lily's medicine works, and then tells her more about what the Courier – and when Lily remarks that that's an odd name for a young woman, he only laughs – is doing in Jacobstown. Lily could tear up at the sad story of their poor, strange dog and his illness, but she's glad to hear that there's some hope for him, so long as the Courier helps Dr. Henry first.

Talking to Arcade is a breath of fresh air for Lily; he seems like such a lovely boy, charmingly awkward, and it's a nice change in atmosphere from always listening to Leo's grumping.

They're in the middle of talking about how Lily came to live in Jacobstown when the lodge doors open and close in the distance. Arcade pauses and turns toward the sound, drawing Lily's attention to who has come out.

The Courier scans the area in search of Arcade and smiles when she finds him. Lily grows even more excited when the woman makes her way over to join them in the pen with a wave. It's hard to find good conversation in Jacobstown, outside of Marcus and a select few.

"Hey, there," the Courier calls with a soft grin, as she opens the gate to let herself in. When she comes closer, and Lily can really get a look at her, she's reminded once more of her grandchildren.

It seems like every young, fresh-faced human does that, these days.

"And hello to you, Lily," the Courier says, snapping Lily out of her reminiscence. Lily is surprised to see a hand extended towards her, waiting to be shaken. It's been so long since she's met someone new with _manners_ , and she makes sure to be gentle and not crush the human's tiny hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is, incidentally, Lilith. Dr. Henry told me that you might have an interest in helping me further his research. I'm about to begin looking into the nearby nightstalker mutation, does that sound like something you'd like to assist me with?"

And doesn't _that_ sound right up Lily's alley?

"Oh, those Nightstalkers," Lily growls, "Always attacking my bighorners! It'll be nice to finally be able to give them a piece of my mind. Of course I'll help you, dearie!"

"That's great! I'm sure you'll show them what for," the Courier chirps warmly. "Let's get going, then. He said their nest isn't too far from here."

* * *

Much to Leo's murderous delight, Lily gets to take her revenge on the nightstalkers. With Lily running ahead into the tunnels and the Courier and Arcade picking off anything that came to attack her from behind – which was sweet, although ultimately unnecessary given that the small creatures could barely pierce her thick skin – they made quick work of the whole nest. By the time they reach what the Courier is looking for – the corpse of a Nightkin and a chewed-on Stealth Boy – Lily has effectively cleared out the entire cavern of every last of the sneaky little vermin.

When they get back to the lodge, Lily opts to wait outside while the Courier goes in to deliver her findings to Dr. Henry. She wants to check on the bighorners to make sure that none of them have gotten away or been attacked by stray nightstalkers in her absence.

Minutes, later, the Courier is coming back over to Lily's pen. Her face is pinched in an uncertain frown.

"Hello again, dear," Lily greets. She thinks the frown makes the woman look rather adorable, but she doesn't like that it suggests unhappiness.

"Hi, Lily," the Courier replies, softly. "Did you, uh… did you still want to help the doctor with his Stealth Boy research? He has something that's highly experimental right now and needs someone to test it on. I would if I could, but… well, it needs to be a Nightkin, and you've been so friendly and helpful that I-"

"Of course, dearie," Lily agrees without a moment of hesitation, stopping the Courier short in her rambling. She remembers that, at one point during a check-up, Dr. Henry had asked if she could be a test subject for his new Stealth Boy when the time came. "I know it's dangerous, but it'll all turn out for the best, you'll see."

"I just want to make sure that you know what the risks at stake are, Lily."

The poor girl looks so worried about Lily, and she doesn't want that. Lily just wants to help.

"I do," Lily assures. At least, she hopes it sounds assuring; it's rather hard with the voice she's been given. "I'll go to him now – it would be rude to keep him waiting!"

The Courier nods, her face relaxing just the slightest bit, and that's enough for Lily to feel like she's doing the right thing.

"I'll come with you, then."

Together, they walk to the lodge and into Dr. Henry's small lab area. Lily notices a distinct lack of Keene in the lobby, which is where he normally chooses to hover, but her mind quickly glosses over the detail in favor of looking ahead towards where Dr. Henry is waiting.

"Hello, Lily," the doctor greets with a small, tired smile. Lily wonders if the doctor will ever relax, what with how caught up in his work he gets. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm doing just fine, dear, you're so sweet for asking."

"I'm glad to hear that," he murmurs as he sets up his equipment and begins to circle around Lily with various devices to take basic readings. "And have you been taking your medicine as I prescribed?"

Lily's pause is almost imperceptible to anyone who doesn't know what happens in her head – which is almost everyone in the room. She doesn't take it nearly as often as she should, as often as the doctor wants her to, because when she does, the memories of her sweet grandchildren fade away.

Lily doesn't want to forget them. She doesn't know if she could live with herself if she did.

"Of course, doctor," she lies, hoping he'll be none the wiser as he focuses on the device that he hands to her, "just like you prescribed."

"Good, good," the doctor responds distractedly. "Now, Lily, I need you to power on this device for me."

She does, and instantly feels a warm rush of energy, familiar and distinctly unfamiliar all at once. When she looks down, she can't see her own hand save for a soft ripple. The device, the Stealth Boy, seems to be working, and even though there's definitely a difference from normal Stealth Boys that she can't quite place, Leo is ecstatic. It's a change of pace from his usual rage and bloodlust that makes Lily feel even more at ease.

"How is it?" Henry asks, watching Lily – or the large rippling effecting that has taken Lily's place, rather – with his clipboard and pen in hand, ready to take notes. Calamity is busy watching what looks to Lily like some sort of data machine, but she can't be bothered to consider what it all might mean, because this Stealth Boy is _good_.

"It feels… strange," Lily remarks. She wiggles around her body and limbs as best as she can, feels the energy flowing through and around her. "Strange, but good!"

"Interesting," Henry muses, scribbling something down onto his clipboard. "Try thinking aggressive thoughts, now. Think about… smashing a rat's skull."

Leo is more than happy to help with that. Lily yells and roars things she doesn't even remember, so overcome with blind anger and the need to _smash_ and _break_ something, everything.

The Courier and Arcade, who have been silently and patiently observing the tests off to the side, take simultaneous – and possibly involuntary – steps back, but they don't seem too afraid. Arcade leans over to murmur something to her, and it earns a giggle. Looking at them, and hearing her gentle laughter, is strangely enough to send what feels like a blanket of coolness over Lily, calming her very bones and clearing Leo's raging fog from her mind.

"How are those readings looking, Calamity?"

"Stealth field is unstable and scrambling things. The reading says gamma wave activity is zero," Calamity reports, still leaning over the computer, staring intently at the numbers and waves and other nonsense. "But that can't possibly be right; it must be a result of the interference."

Henry sighs, and Lily worries that she's done something wrong. She only wanted to help.

"Alright, we're done here," Henry says, and he sounds just as (if not more) tired as always. "Go ahead and power the Stealth Boy down, Lily."

She does as she's told, diligent in every instruction the doctor gives her. Leo breaks out of his temporary pleasantness (or, what the Leo-equivalent of being pleasant is) to scream at Lily, demanding that she re-activate the Stealth Boy.

She ignores him and his outrage, as she often tries to do, and instead opts to say, "Aw, I liked having it on."

"I'll get back to you on that in a moment," he reassures, taking the device back. "After I've analyzed these results."

"We're going to stay here while Dr. Henry looks at the results," the Courier tells her. "You can wait outside, if that's what you want."

Lily takes that as her cue to leave, so she waves goodbye to everyone and heads out, ready to patiently await the news of whatever Henry finds. She's giddy with the thought of having a new, better Stealth Boy in the foreseeable future.

As she walks out, Keene is leading a group of storming Nightkin into the lab. She wonders if he was waiting outside the door during the test the whole time, if he followed her in. Immediately, Keene can be heard yelling from inside the lab, but it isn't the first time that's ever happened and it certainly won't be the last. Leo encourages Lily to join, because he's certain that Keene is debating for the immediate release of the new Stealth Boy, but Lily merely shrugs it all off and waits outside like she's supposed to.

Lily isn't entirely sure what had gone on in the lab after Keene barged in, but whatever it was managed to result in no bloodshed. Keene and his followers retreat from the lodge minutes later, although it's not without a heavy amount of grumbling and vengeful words. If Lily knows anything about Keene, it's that he will undoubtedly try something else to get whatever it is he wants.

She hopes it can all be resolved soon.

* * *

Lily loses track of time, and before she knows it, the Courier is back with Arcade following closely behind her.

She can't wait to hear the doctor's verdict, eager to be allowed to keep the Stealth Boy because of how _good_ it felt to have. It also helps to keep Leo at least the slightest bit satisfied, and Lily hopes that having a good Stealth Boy will keep him from yelling about everything all the time. She might finally be allowed to think about her grandchildren without Leo spoiling it all.

"Well, Lily," the Courier starts with a bright, prideful smile, "it looks like the doctor won't need you for his experiments anymore. We've found an alternative method for him to continue his testing."

Arcade nods, beaming warmly at the woman. "It was brilliant, really. A simple solution to a complicated, drawn-out problem."

Lily is a little disappointed to hear that. Leo, however, was more than a little disappointed. As in, he immediately begins to howl and scream about how the Courier's skull would make the absolute _best_ sound if Lily were to crush it under her boot.

"Aw, but I liked the prototype!" Lily pouts, ignoring everything Leo says with more force than usual. None of them are things that the nice young lady will want to hear. It's almost enough to make Lily consider taking her medicine, just to shut him up.

"I know, I know," the Courier says, holding her hands up as if to keep Lily calm. "I just didn't want you to be put at anymore of a risk than you need to be. I understand that you wanted to help – and you did! – but your part in this is over now. If anything, this new method of testing will allow the research for the Mark II to work at an accelerated pace, and then it'll be out and ready for use faster than it would have been otherwise!"

Her assurances do little to soothe Leo's anger at having to wait _more_ , but he does, surprisingly, calm down just the _tiniest_ bit at the idea of the new Stealth Boy being closer to their reality.

"Alright the, dearie," Lily concedes, because she can understand that maybe it's better in the long run for everyone else. "I trust your judgment."

"Thank you, Lily. It's been a pleasure working with you."

"You, too, dear. You've both been such lovely company. Grandma doesn't get that often, around here."

"No?" the Courier asks, a contemplative frown forming. "That's a real shame. You're very friendly."

"It's not a good idea," Arcade tells her, giving her a look that Lily doesn't understand. "Not in the city, not right now."

"What wouldn't?"

"I know what you're thinking. I can see the cogs turning in your brain."

The Courier gasps. "I was _not_ -"

Arcade simply crosses his arms and raises a knowing brow.

"Alright," she fires back, crossing her arms in return to mirror him. "Maybe I _was_ thinking about it. She'd be nice to have around, come on. And think of the tactical advantage."

"Lilith," Arcade admonishes. "No offense to Lily, but a Nightkin in Vegas? Right now? It wouldn't go over well, especially with NCR's presence. You saw those men a while back. They want to harass the mutants, this would only give them a reason to come back."

"Someone could see it as a personal affront. You're right." The Courier turns to Lily. "I wish we could take you with us, but he really is right. It could shake things up too much, and that place is already set to blow."

Lily has no idea how the idea of her in Vegas has come up, but she finds that she doesn't mind the idea of spending more time with the Courier and Arcade, especially if it means that she can help to keep them safe. She remembers the brief stories they'd told her, during the walk back to town after taking care of the nightstalkers, of all the run-ins they've had with bad, bad people who only wished harm on them.

Lily would _love_ to be able to give those people a big piece of her mind.

"I understand, dear," Lily tells her, gently rest a large hand on the Courier's tiny shoulder. "But Grandma would love it if you kids came to visit every now and then."

"That sounds like a plan, Lily," the Courier replies with a grin. "I might even come back for you when I'm doing work that isn't in the city, at least until things settle down. It'd be good for you to be able to get out of Jacobstown."

"That… might work, actually," Arcade comments thoughtfully.

"That sounds lovely. You know where I'll be waiting."

"Of course." The Courier laughs, and turns to Arcade then with her hands on her hips. "And now, I think it's time we take our leave."

"Oh yeah? What's next on our agenda?" Arcade asks with a smile. "Something life-threatening, I assume?"

"Oh, I'm afraid it's not quite as exciting as this, my dear Arcade," she replies with a wide grin of her own. "We're going hunting for a brand new dog brain. Lily, I'll come back for you when the time is right, okay?"

Lily can't wait.


	6. ED-E

**A/N:** _Is anyone still here?_ Gosh, I haven't updated in a long time. I've been slowly whittling away at these two chapters - this one is fairly short, but the next one is Long AF to make up for it, and 100% complete. :D I'll probably post it in a few days. Thanks for sticking around!

* * *

ED-E can never recall what happens in the dead zones of its memory, blackened by the lack of input. All it knows is the moments before and after.

This happens to be a moment after. And it knows that it that suddenly it has power.

 _Life._

The first thing ED-E knows is that this activation is not one of its own will – but until the rest of its systems boots up, it can't figure out why it had been off in the first place. Given the circumstances, though, it's about as grateful as an eyebot can be.

The systems boot one by one, a laggy process that comes with old, post-war technology. Basic facilities boot first, and so the first input ED-E can detect is that it's upright and at a stable hovering height. In the next second, the auditory channels have reconnected.

"Aaaaaand… that should do it!" is the first thing ED-E hears. It's a cry of success that makes it feel good – it reminds ED-E of the night Whitley spent tinkering with and boosting the little eyebot's capabilities.

It takes at least thirty seconds for optics to come online, and after a feed of hardware information scrolls across its vision, ED-E can finally take in its surroundings.

Scanning parts of the room that it finds itself in doesn't help ED-E grasp where it is, though. Its natural instinct to check what its navigation has to say about its surroundings comes back empty-handed when it finds that the system is struggling to start up, more than normal. A diagnostics check shows that the lagging nav system is more than likely due to previous damage that was only partially repaired.

ED-E doesn't know where it is. The last thing in its memory banks is a feed of a long, lonely stretch of road and dirt, in what ED-E knows had been the Mojave Desert – it's navigation had been working back then. It'd been on a journey across the country, headed to Navarro, but it couldn't tell if it had gotten any closer to or further from its destination.

Instead of finding some sort of sign that might help, ED-E is met with five pairs of eyes, each varying in emotional state. Four humanoids, one canine. The canine is half-robotic, registering as a Mk III law enforcement model. Facial and body recognition tells ED-E that the humans are likely to be evenly split between male and female.

ED-E beeps curiously.

The human closest to it grins widely and wipes at her slick forehead, tucking away a lock of dark hair behind an ear.

"Wow," the other woman breathes, impressed. "Wouldn't have pegged you as a roboticist."

"I wouldn't go that far. I'm not an expert or anything," the first one replies with a shrug, though her gaze never strays from watching ED-E with rapt interest, "but I know a little thing or two about 'em."

"Well, I'm just as surprised as the next person, but it's a little… old, don't you think?" one of the men – the blond one – says. The look he gives ED-E bears nothing but distrust. "Maybe we should leave it. It probably doesn't even have all of its proper functions."

ED-E can't help the indignant chirp it lets out at that.

"I think it can hear you, pal," the brown-hooded woman giggles.

"Of course it can," the man replies with a huff. "It's a robot. It's made to take orders, regardless of who's giving them, and in order to do that, it needs at least some basic understanding of language."

"It also takes preset commands," the first woman comments thoughtfully. "All eyebots do."

The man finally manages to tear his gaze from ED-E and looks at her sharply. "You know a lot more about eyebots than the average person."

"A decent amount, yeah."

"How, if I may ask?"

"They were always floating around where I'm from. I did a lot of reading on them."

"Ah." He watches her thoughtfully, but says no more.

"For example," she continues, unaware of the behavior of her companion, "I know that there's a following protocol that you can use to make them do whatever you need them to do. However, I think it could also be as simple as," she jerks her thumb over her shoulder and addresses ED-E, "Hey, little buddy. Wanna come with us?"

With no sense of direction and its mission put on hold until it finds one, ED-E decides: why not? This person seems nice enough. It bobs in the air and gives a happy chirp of agreement.

The woman breaks out into a smile that makes ED-E feel like it's doing good things, just like how Whitley used to make it feel. "Cool. Let's head out, then."

"That's an awfully expressive hunk of metal," the blond man mumbles.

"I think it's cute!" the hooded woman laughs as they all file out of the building. ED-E follows along like it's supposed to, still uncertain and curious of where it's ended up after the long stretch of road.

Outside is a dusty, empty town with two large casinos and an even larger roller coaster. ED-E doesn't recognize any of it as anything it's ever seen before. Despite the lack of recognizable landmarks for the eyebot, the area surrounding the town was very clearly desert terrain, with hot sand and Western flora. ED-E thinks that maybe it hasn't strayed too far from where it had crashed, which is a huge relief.

In front of one of the casinos stands a large sign, tall and lazily rotating on its own. _Bison Steve_ means nothing to ED-E until its navigation systems come back online. Another scan of its hardware shows that the navigation is still attempting to connect. If it hasn't connected by now, ED-E is certain that, without a fully proper repair, it won't ever come back online.

Maybe it'll stick around this person, the dark-haired woman, longer than it expected. She at least has some understanding of its systems, maybe she just doesn't know that the repair wasn't finished. It's worrisome – ED-E isn't sure how it can communicate that it needs further repairs. But it's determined to find a way, especially if it means completing Whitley's mission.

"I think it's creepy," the blond man continues once they're all outside. "I'm just saying, it would be a shame if it broke down again and we just so happened to not have the replacement parts."

"Oh, don't get your lab coat in a twist, Arcade," the first woman says with a laugh. "It's just an almost-harmless little robot."

The man glances over his shoulder at ED-E, eyes narrowed once more in blatant suspicion.

" _Almost_ is the key word. And something tells me it's more than that."


	7. Cass

It begins when Cass is doing just about the only thing she can be found doing these days – minding her own goddamn business at the goddamn bar in the goddamn Outpost that she's been bureaucratically bound to for who knows how goddamn long.

Well, Cass actually knows _exactly_ how long it's been. She just doesn't want to think about it.

And so she drinks.

The sound of the bar doors opening is something that Cass barely has the mind to respond to, only bothering to tilt her head slightly towards the sound – which is more than can be said for most days. She watches, with no real interest, as a traveler leans against the surface of the bar, making short idle conversation with the bartender before asking for work.

Just another merc, then.

Their conversation – which turns into nothing but a muted chatter that Cass quickly loses interest in – ends before she knows it, but Cass doesn't have the presence of mind to stop her absent staring. She's too lost in her thoughts and her whiskey.

It's a very big mistake. The woman is now staring back.

Cass ducks her head quickly and thinks, _Oh god, don't look at me, don't think about me, don't –_

Shit.

The stranger starts walking in Cass' direction.

Granted, Cass is pretty sure that her expression is almost always a scowl these days. Paired with her habit of building small armies of empty bottles around herself, she has a tendency to attract the occasional travelers' attention – at least, until she scares them off with the threat of a broken nose.

That only happens on her bad days, though. The day is still so young that the mood for it remains to be seen.

The stranger sits herself two seats away from Cass. She orders herself a drink that Cass doesn't catch the name of and chooses to face forward, as if Cass doesn't exist. For a blissful moment, Cass thinks that maybe the woman will choose to simply ignore her and leave her alone. She thinks that maybe she's gotten lucky this time around.

And then the stranger tilts her head to the side, towards Cass. Not so lucky, then.

"Long day?" the woman asks casually, _too_ casually, and Cass at least has to give her points for starting out semi-politely. That can't be said about everyone who approaches her.

It doesn't stop the internal barrage of colorful swearing, though.

"More like long _life_ ," Cass responds lowly, and she isn't even a little bit sorry for being so snippy right out of the gate. People are dicks. Life is a dick. She just wants to be left alone to drink her whiskey and wallow in her misfortune. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," the woman says with a shrug, ultimately unfazed by Cass' openly sour attitude. "You seem pretty down."

"I'm fine."

"Really? That rather impressive fort of empty bottles doesn't seem to agree." There's a part of Cass that wants to smack that smug knowing look off the other woman's face. It loses to the part of her that doesn't have the energy to do much of anything.

"I'm _fine_ ," Cass repeats. She hates repeating herself. "And these bottles are all I have left, besides the clothes on my back," she slurs with a bitter laugh. "They're my only friends."

"I can tell, seeing as how you're pretty deep into that one."

"You talk funny," Cass says by way of misdirection, in lieu of an actual rebuttal. If you can't argue with them intellectually, attack them on a personal level. She sees politicians do it back in NCR territory all the time.

"So do you," the woman replies with a small smile. Cass almost laughs. Almost.

"Well, in my defense, I'm drunk as all hell – or at least going to be. What's your excuse?"

"My father was from another country, called Ireland. I used to have a much thicker accent when I was little, before I started listening to other people talk."

" _Normal_ people, you mean," Cass supplies, although she doesn't really mean it – she's heard her fair share of strange accents, it's not like it's a new concept for her. She just feels like being mean. And then, in a swing of emotion that she is so often prone to during her heavy drinking phases, she loses her fire and gains her curiosity. "Where is he now? Your father from _Ireland_."

"Dead."

Cass pauses in the middle of a shot to raise a brow at the other woman. It's something to hear such a small, simple word that carries so much meaning said so… _nonchalantly_. Or, maybe not nonchalant, but to the point. No nonsense, because death happens all the time, to anyone, out in the cruel heart of the wasteland. Cass can appreciate the acceptance of death, at least.

She polishes off another bottle of whiskey and immediately pops open a new one that had been placed near her in a moment where she wasn't paying attention. With the wave of a hand, she gets another shot glass and pours two shots. She slides one across the bar to the woman and, for the first time, meets her gaze.

"Life's shit, ain't it?"

"I'll drink to that," the stranger agrees, with a nod of thanks as she downs the shot. It's only then that Cass realizes that the woman already has a bottle of scotch before her, brought to her by the bartender probably at the same time as her whiskey.

Cass is a whiskey woman herself, but she can respect a good bottle of scotch.

The woman looks forward again, decidedly not focusing on Cass for the first time since she sat down at the bar. Maybe what Cass has said has struck a chord, and why wouldn't it? Life really is shit, that's something most people can agree on. If your life isn't shit, you're either incredibly lucky or an incredible liar.

Cass lets the woman have her moment of contemplation, grateful for the silence that it brings. Her curiosity might be piqued, but she's still not partial to holding conversations with strangers.

The silence doesn't last forever. It never does.

"That's not why I'm here, though," the woman continues suddenly, as if she hadn't completely zoned out for a solid minute or two and effectively put the conversation to a dead halt. "Or maybe it is? It's hard to tell right now. What's life handed to you, Miss…?"

Cass stares at her, really _stares_ , for a few quiet seconds before she concludes that this young stranger – she only now takes in her youthful features, and Cass guesses that she must have at _least_ ten years on the other woman – is just not going to leave her alone. There's something in this woman's eyes that says as much, something that intrigues her for reasons she can't understand – and she finds that the notion doesn't bother her as much as it normally would.

She shakes her head and writes it off as her being partial to bonding with women who have also lost their fathers, one way or another.

"Rose of Sharon Cassidy," she replies finally, with only a little bit of a slur to the pacing of her words. She can't help the bark of a laugh she lets out at the way the woman's face scrunches up in what can only be described as pure confusion. She extends her hand across the gap between them in offering.

"That is… quite the mouthful," is all the other woman says as she firmly grips Cass' hand, but she gives a warm look all the same.

"Sure is. Just call me Cassidy, or Cass."

"Deal. I'm Lilith, but lately I've really been into being called the Courier."

"Well, I can't imagine why," Cass murmurs flatly. There either is or isn't a story behind a choice like that, and Cass isn't sure if she wants to know what it is right now.

"It's a mystery few can know of and fewer can solve," Lilith – the _Courier_ – divulges with a sly grin. "For the time being, at least. But I want to hear about you. What's on your mind, Miss Cassidy?"

And that causes her to take just the slightest bit of pause, because what _is_ on Cass' mind? Far too much, but she's been spending so much of her time trying to make it _nothing_. But it can never really be _nothing_ , she's realized. Just being in this place – in the bar, in the Outpost – is enough to constantly remind her of everything she's lost.

The question is enough to make her think more than she wants to, and her head suddenly becomes clear, almost uncomfortably so. She's hyperaware of the sticky bar beneath her arms, the sounds of glasses and dull chattering in the room, the way the warm light of the late-afternoon shines from the eastern side of the room through the shutters that cover the broken windows, highlighting the dust and dirt floating through the air.

She would much rather go back to _nothing_ , if she's being totally honest.

In front of her is her personal small army of empty whiskey bottles – in truth, they're not all from this one day. The bartender has just taken to leaving them out in front of what has become Cass' spot, as a silent, passive-aggressive way to show Cass how much she's been drinking and how she needs to stop. It's a good intention that she doesn't appreciate.

The sight of the bottles, gathered in a mass that neatly sums up how's she's been spending the past few weeks of her life, is what makes her crack. For a reason utterly beyond her increasingly-drunken comprehension, she starts to tell the Courier _exactly_ what's on her mind.

All of it.

It starts with the story of her sacked caravan, ravaged and broken and leaving her with an empty title and nowhere to go. With the roads closed off and the apparently harsh competition between local caravans, Cass is bound to the Outpost by something that no longer exists. She bemoans the early days when she would go to the offices of the Outpost on a daily basis, checking to see if the roads or her papers have cleared so she could _leave_.

"But nothing ever happened," she spits, slamming her glass on the bar for emphasis, "and nothing _will_ happen for some time. I don't understand how hard it is to process a couple of goddamn papers, much less get a couple of folks out there to kill some goddamn _ants_. I'm sure the rest of the caravan runners would be willing to do it, just so we could be allowed to _leave_."

"It doesn't sound like it'd be too bad to clear up," the Courier agrees thoughtfully. "Who here is in charge of when and how that gets done?"

"Jackson, in the main building." Cass says it with a dismissive wave of her hand, like it doesn't matter, because she's spent more than her fair share of time trying to get Jackson to expedite the process. "And let me tell you about _those folks_ , the _bureaucrats_ …"

It all spirals after that, and once she's done complaining about the policies and procedures of the NCR's caravan-handling processes and how much they grind her gears, things start to get a little more personal. She can't even remember how exactly it happened – the Courier doesn't say too much in response outside of small, prodding questions and sympathetic sounds every now and again.

Somehow, Cass finds herself talking about how she got into the business of being a caravan runner in the first place, about all of her best (and worst) exploits with booze during her first handful of trips… and even what little she knows about her dear old dad. The least of which is what happened to him, where he went off to or ended up. The Courier is especially sympathetic during that topic.

Cass is just so damn tired and so damn drunk and so _damn_ beaten down by life – even if she has her spitfire moods – that she completely melts at the opportunity to tell and complain to _someone_ about everything. It helps that this particular someone isn't from the Outpost, drowning her in pity, or trying to one-up her suffering by talking about themselves the whole time. It's a rare moment that she tells someone all that there is to tell, but for once in a long time, Cass is _talking_ to someone, as opposed to beating their face in as per her usual angered behavior.

If she's being honest… it feels kinda nice.

Eventually, though, the time comes when the bar lights come on and the crickets begin sounding off in the evening outside, and Cass – surprisingly – doesn't have much else to say. It may also have something to do with the _extreme_ case of cottonmouth she realizes she has after talking for so long, but somehow, her long tirade of emotion finally slows to a stuttering end.

Once she stops talking, the world seems much quieter than it usually is, like her vent of emotion has thrown a dampening blanket over all of the _noise_. The moment of peace calms her.

The spell is broken when the Courier stretches her arms out in front of her, letting out a satisfied groan when her shoulders and back pop loudly. It reminds Cass of just how long they've been sitting here, talking. She hasn't talked this long with a single person in weeks.

"Well, it's been a pleasure talking with you," the Courier says as she waves over the bartender, "But I think the time has come for me to head out. I'm on my way through Nipton, trying to get to Novac."

"Night traveling? You're either very stupid or very brave." _Or both_ , Cass thinks. Both can exist at the same time.

"I like to travel when it gets cooler out. This heat is gnarly, and I've had more cases of heat exhaustion than I'd like to admit."

"I guess. You do you. Watch out for baddies, though. There's lots of them," Cass murmurs with a shiver, having gone _well_ over her talking quota for the next few days. As the Courier hops down from her barstool – and when she hopped over to the stool directly next to Cass in the first place, she doesn't know – Cass stares off into a shocked nothingness, wondering _just what the hell about this random woman made her spill her guts like that_.

She spares a glance at her fort of empty bottles and thinks, _well, that might have something to do with it_.

Even still, it's unsettling, how easy it had been for her to break and just _talk_. And to a complete stranger, no less. Normally Cass is able to control herself more – or at least, she's usually able lose control in the sense that she starts throwing punches instead of her every thought and feeling.

The Courier places a few neat stacks of caps on the bar to be collected for her bill. When she reaches down to pick up her bag that Cass has never noticed until just now, the Courier pauses thoughtfully. The look she gives Cass makes her shift in her seat.

"What? What's that look for?"

"That obvious?"

"As obvious as those statues out there."

The Courier laughs, unashamed. "I was just thinking about how I would ask you to come with me, if you could." _Or even wanted to_ , is the part that she leaves unspoken.

Cass looks her over one more time and figures, what with how pleasant the Courier had been, Cass might not mind the company – and the direction. Cass might not know much about the Courier, but she can at least tell that she has a _plan_. Cass can't say the same for herself.

But they both know that she's bound by her dead caravan for the time being.

"I would if I could," she replies, with a sincerity she hadn't been expecting. "Change of scene would be nice."

"I understand. Maybe someday I'll come back and see where you're at, hm?"

"Maybe." Cass has no idea how much longer she'll be stuck here, and the mere idea of being able to leave freely is _so_ tempting. As an afterthought, she adds, "If you were looking for someone to caravan with, I'd try the Crimson Caravan up north. They pretty much run the roads now. You're bound to find something worth doing there."

"I'll keep that in mind," the Courier says, finally lifting her backpack to one shoulder. She lets out a small breath of preparation – _out to face the big bad world_ , Cass thinks with a mix of envy and pity – and holds a hand out.

"Then I guess we'll see each other sometime in the future, Cass."

Cass allows herself to smile, softly, as she grips the Courier's hand in a solid handshake. "I'd like that. Gets pretty damn boring here."

"I've gathered that," the Courier laughs. "Thank you again for taking the time to talk with me. I know you didn't have to and didn't _want_ to, but I enjoyed getting to listen to you."

"No problem," Cass mutters, for lack of any better words.

The Courier begins to walk out and then, seemingly struck with a thought, quickly spins around on her heel to look back at Cass.

"Oh, random question: you wouldn't by any chance happen to have a sensor module, would you?"

The question is just about as odd and misplaced as the Courier herself. Cass _knows_ she doesn't look like someone who would have that kind of shit on her person.

"Uh, no, but you could check the caravans outside. They tend to pick up crap like that."

"Yeah, I figured. It was worth a shot, though, thanks anyway."

And with a final wave and a swing of the bar door, the Courier is gone.

It's only after she's left, and Cass is left alone to reflect, that she realizes she was the only one who had really been talking that _whole_ time – so much that she hardly drank during the entire conversation. The Courier had simply nodded, listened, and asked the occasional question.

Cass is surprised when she feels a pang of regret for not getting to know the Courier enough in return.

* * *

Seeing the Courier again isn't something Cass really expected. Bigger fish to fry, better sights to see; who would bother coming back to the Outpost when they could be doing literally anything else?

Cass finds herself proven very wrong weeks later, however, when the bar doors open and, lo and behold, the Courier waltzes in.

The woman looks different. She's cleaner, more put-together, and she carries herself higher. Meanwhile, a whole month has passed, and Cass is still sitting in the exact same spot as she was the first time they met.

It's a lovely reminder of how pathetic her situation is.

"Hello again, Miss Cassidy," the Courier calls warmly, with an interesting flourish of her wrist. Cass only smirks and gives her a lazy tip of her hat. "I see you're still funding the bar."

Cass barks out a laugh that only sounds a little bit bitter. "Yeah, I suppose you could say that. And how's life treating you?"

"Eh, it's so-so," the Courier says with a wavering hand gesture as she hops up onto the same seat she'd taken the last time. "Finished one thing only to have another one or six pop up out of the woodworks, you know?"

"Right now, can't say that I do."

"Oh, right." And at least she looks genuinely sheepish at her mistake. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Cass replies, nursing her drink.

"That kind of brings up why I'm here, though. It's up to you to decide how you feel about it." The Courier reaches into her bag – the very same as the first time – and pulls out a thick packet of papers. "The Crimson Caravan would like to extend their formal offer to buy Cassidy Caravans from you."

Cass can't control the way her eyebrows raise at that. Straight to the point, this Courier is. No buttering-up or anything.

The packet is slid across the bar for Cass to peruse, and she composes herself enough to take it with disinterest and flip through the pages idly. She ignores the business talk and technical jargon as she settles on the page where the offer stares back at her in bold, black print.

"That's a lot of zeroes," is all she says.

"Yep."

Cass lets the pages fall flat, hiding the large sum the Crimson Caravan is willing to give her for her dead caravan.

"I can't accept this," she says quietly. Her fingers push the papers away by no more than an inch.

The Courier's eyes widen in a way that looks almost comical. "You want _more_?"

"No, no, the caps are good." Cass sighs, and rubs so hard at her eyes that she sees spots when she opens them again. "I just… I can't. I can't sell my caravan. It's all I have."

"It's ash," the Courier says immediately, and the way her mouth promptly snaps shut with a sharp sound tells Cass that the matter-of-fact comment may have slipped out unintentionally. She's lucky that Cass' mourning period for her caravan has long since passed, otherwise things might have gotten messy.

"I know. But it's my name. You wouldn't sell your name, would you?"

"No," the Courier murmurs distantly, her brow creasing. "No, I can't say that I would."

"Then you can't expect me to sell mine," Cass says with finality. She even punctuates her resolve with a deep drink straight from her current bottle of whiskey.

The Courier fidgets a lot after that, everything from drumming her fingers against the counter to untying and retying her thick, dark ponytail. Cass knows that the conversation isn't as over as she'd like it to be; she can still remember the way the Courier had managed to get her to spill what was essentially her whole life story all those weeks ago.

She doesn't know how to feel about someone messing around with her head like that, inebriated or not.

After all of her silent fiddling and loud thinking, the Courier finally swivels on her seat to face Cass fully. She props her arm up on the bar and rests her cheek on her hand.

"Your caravan is the reason you're still here, yes?"

And _oh_ , Cass doesn't need to be 100% sober to see where this is going.

"Mostly, yeah."

"So you'd rather just sit here every day, doing this?" With a sweeping gesture, the Courier presents the wonders and glamour of the dimly-lit and dully-colored bar that Cass is _more_ than familiar with at this point.

"Sure would." No, she wouldn't, and she's even said as much before, but she's trying to hold out for as long as she can. Out of principle.

"Really? Because it seems like you're not doing anything at all. You said it yourself: you're just wasting away here in – let's be honest – a pretty shitty outpost. I think there's a lot more you'd rather be doing. I think there's a lot more that you _could_ be doing."

And if that isn't hitting the nail on the head, getting straight to the ugly point. It's something that Cass has thought about more times than she can count, so many times that she should have been driven insane by this point. Hearing it come from someone else, however, makes it all the more real.

Freedom is within her grasp, if she would only reach out and take it.

"You've got a point," is all Cass will allow out loud, though. "I wouldn't be stuck here if it weren't for my contract."

" _Exactly_ ," the Courier says softly. "Listen, you're not selling your name. You've still got every right to that, Cass. But you have to let the caravan go, or you won't be able to move forward. You'll be stuck here, doing the same exact thing you've been doing for the past month or so.

"Forget the Crimson Caravan, forget the money. Do this for yourself, Cass. Set yourself free."

Cass stares straight forward and really _thinks_. She'd always seen the act of selling her caravan as a selling of her name, of her identity, and she knows that her dear father would turn over in the grave that he may or may not have if she ever did that.

But the caravan is gone, just as much as he is. And no matter what, she'll always be the mouthful that is _Rose of Sharon Cassidy_.

"Alright," Cass breathes with a nod. And then, turning to meet the Courier's gaze with more certainty, "Alright, fine. Got a pen?"

* * *

Signing those papers lifts a weight from Cass' shoulders, one larger than she had thought she was dealing with. She supposes, once the papers have been carefully sorted back into the Courier's bag, that her ghosts have been much more of a burden on her life than she had wanted to admit. And now, with the slightly sloppy stroke of a pen, she's been liberated.

"Jackson still won't let me leave," Cass says as an afterthought. "Not with the dangers on the road."

The Courier's grin in almost instantaneous. "Right. I _may_ have taken care of those _dangers_ before I came to meet you. Jackson gave the all-clear. You're free to go."

"Really."

It's exactly what she's wanted for _weeks_ on end. She has nowhere to be, but all the power to leave.

And a very strange young woman before her who she's pretty sure is _the_ Courier who the rumors are about. Cass may be drunk most of the time, but she still hears the bar gossip that happens around her. If the rumors are true, this young woman is just the right person to talk to in order to get something done.

And right now, Cass can think of only one thing she wants to get done. She wants to see the place where Cassidy Caravans _really_ died.

"So, does that offer of yours still stand?" Cass asks after she's had a good _think_ and they have a weird, silent stare-off. She doesn't have to be specific. Especially with the way the Courier's lips immediately stretch into a wider, brighter grin than before.

* * *

The small posse waiting for them outside is something that Cass could never have expected, though. Probably even less than she had expected the Courier herself.

 _What a group of odd-balls_ , is all she can think when she sees them. A stoic First Recon guy, a doctor who speaks almost exclusively in sarcasm and self-deprecating humor, a woman who looks like a hermit who would live in a cave or something, and a half-robotic dog is _not_ the conventional traveling party – but, she considers, the Courier doesn't seem to be a conventional courier.

Maybe there's some rhyme and reason to this group, after all. She just can't see it yet.

Cass tries to hold her gloved hand out for the dog to sniff, but he recoils with a growl. The Courier doesn't seem too bothered about it, if her laugh is anything to go by.

"Oh, don't worry about Rex. It's just your hat," the Courier says by way of explanation, as if that makes _any_ sense. Cass decides that maybe this dog isn't the dog for her and moves on. "Anyway, I may have picked up some others since I last saw you. Gang, this is Cass. Cass, this is the gang. We'll have plenty of time to make introductions on the way back to the city. Also, how do you feel about staying in the penthouse of a pre-war luxury casino? Don't worry, I know it's a loaded question, and I'll give you time to think about it."

The Courier is speaking so fast and happily that Cass can hardly keep up. She's glad she isn't as drunk as she could be, otherwise she _definitely_ wouldn't be able to make heads or tails of what's going on.

As she opens her mouth to say something, _anything_ , in response instead of standing there dumbly with her mouth hanging open, a small orb buzzes right past her face to settle near the Courier. The orb – _robot_ – makes an array of pinging and beeping noises. It sounds very much like an attempt at communication.

"Oh yeah," the Courier tells Cass with a grin. "I found that sensor module I was looking for."


	8. Raul

**A/N:** It's been, what, a year since I last updated? God. Thanks for waiting, y'all. I'm glad to finally be writing again, and I hope to put out more updated and new works as soon as I can. :D

* * *

His warning comes in the form of a commotion outside, so loud that it bleeds through the metal walls and is picked up by his old, decayed ears.

Raul thinks little of it, though. He's heard a great deal of things going on out there – and has even seen a few during the times when he's been taken outside his dim-lit room. The incidents vary from attacks against unsuspecting victims who tread too closely to the mountain to being nothing more than cases of infighting between the hulking mutants themselves.

His captors are strange like that, absolutely boneheaded at times. Which, all things considered, might say something about Raul, who hasn't been able to outsmart them at all to slip away from the mountain since he'd been caught.

It doesn't help that his old body has been ravaged by radiation and time, leaving him with creaking bones, deteriorating muscles, and mutilated flesh. He can at least use that as an excuse as to why he can't seem to escape.

Raul has long since abandoned the hope that he'll be rescued by some hero in the doorway, guns blazing, angels singing, and framed by a halo of glorious light. Anyone who would be sane enough to coordinate the kind of rescue mission that involves a radioactive mountain swarming with invisible trigger-happy walking walls of solid blue muscle would also be sane enough to know that they probably _shouldn't_. Especially just to save an old ghoul mechanic that they undoubtedly don't know or care about.

So when the fighting starts outside, Raul chooses to ignore the racket in favor of reading the worn issue of _Fixin' Things_ that he's already read at _least_ a hundred times before. He tells himself every time that it's still just as interesting as it was when he first found it in his makeshift prison, and sometimes that's actually true.

Most of the time it isn't, thought, because he just can't lie to himself that much.

He manages to reach the ad for a ridiculously expensive pre-war car that takes up all of page 18, which has a giant blotchy stain of _something_ in the center of it, when the yelling and shooting outside stops.

 _Good,_ Raul thinks. Now he can focus on being a miserable prisoner with no hope of liberation in peace.

It only takes a couple of minutes of idle page-flipping, however, for Raul to notice that something feels… off. Like something is different in the room, like there's a certain kind of void that wasn't there before.

He sets his magazine on the workbench and turns in his chair to glance around the room, searching for the change.

It's his radio, he realizes. The one that Tabitha always makes sure is on and tuned to her train-wreck of a show. The light flickers, as it always does no matter how many times Raul changes the bulb or fiddles with the wire connections, but no sound comes out of the little speaker. No music, none of Tabitha's nonsensical shouting, not even static.

Nothing.

It's entirely unusual and a major red flag of _something_ , but there isn't much Raul can do to investigate why the radio has gone silent while he's locked in this sad metal room.

And so, he waits. For _what_ exactly, he doesn't know, but his intuition is telling him to wait. He tries desperately to ignore the rising hope that bubbles within him.

It's both too long and not long enough before, sure enough, he hears the door to the room connected to his open and shut with a distinct metallic creak, a sound that used to signal Tabitha's arrival to fetch him or yell at him for something or other.

Now, he doesn't know what to expect. He at least hopes that whoever it is, they're:

a) not here to kill him, and

b) competent enough to know that Tabitha keeps the passcode to the lock on Raul's door on a terminal in the room that they're currently in.

(He'd been the one to tell Tabitha to put the passcode somewhere for safe keeping, and right after she'd left his cell he could hear the keyboard taps of her putting it on one of the terminals. Why she listened to him, he has no idea.)

He can hear voices, light and decidedly feminine, and chooses to simply lean back in his chair and wait when the keypad that secures his door is activated. He doesn't know what's to come and has no real choice in whatever happens, defenseless as he is.

The door finally swings open with an agonizing slowness, revealing a cautious young woman. She would seem completely harmless were it not for the weathered rifle aiming steadily right between his eyes.

"Are you Raul?"

"That's me." He surrenders to her, lazily. It's not like he has any other options. "And you are…?"

"Someone who just risked a hell of a lot to get you out of here. Among other things."

"And is this how you greet all of the captives that you save?" Raul asks, nodding to the gun in her hands. Her expression shifts to something softer, and the gun is lowered.

"No. No, I'm sorry, this place just has me on edge."

"Can't imagine why you'd feel that way," he drawls.

"Right," she laughs. "I'm Lilith. Or, the Courier."

He accepts the hand that she offers to him with a solid shake. "You're a courier?"

"I'm _the_ Courier."

The small inflection makes him realize what she means. It surprises him, though he can't decide whether it's in a positive or negative way. He's heard only a few snippets of actual news from the outside world in the long time that he'd been held in captivity, during the rare times that he felt safe enough to change the station. Tabitha hated it when anyone on the mountain listened to any radio station other than her own, and Raul learned very soon to never get caught.

Given what he has heard about the person called the Courier, however, he can say that in real life she is… interesting, to say the least. Raul knew the stories and has seen the beacons of light in an otherwise dark wasteland and about the tower on the Strip that no one has ever entered before.

He doesn't know what makes her so different.

"So, _you_ got rid of those ugly, hulking bastards?" he asks, not making any sort of attempt to hide the disbelief in his tone. A quick once-over of her brings nothing special to his attention; she's a small woman, just a baby compared to Raul in age, and he highly doubts that she could hold her own against his captors. The Nightkin had a tendency to charge their victims, and no amount of sharpshooting skill could help anyone when they were being pummeled into the ground and torn limb from limb.

"Well, most of them, sure," she says with a dismissive shrug. "It's not like I didn't have help. We used distractions for some of them, though, so we're going to want to get out of here as soon as possible and be careful as we do it. They're slippery."

"And the others?" Raul asks. "Tabitha?" His brain is still stuck on the mental image of this small youth brawling with even _one_ of the burly Nightkin. It's hard to believe that she and whatever small amount of help she has could do what so many others could not.

"Taken care of. Listen, we can exchange our tales of battle over a campfire and bottles of booze once we're safe. Right now, we need to _leave_." She eyes the room behind him, dark and dull. "Unless, of course, you'd like to stay. To each their own, I suppose."

She fakes the motion to close the door and it causes Raul to lurch instinctively, having realized just how close to real freedom he is. There's sympathy in her eyes that he chooses to ignore in favor of examining the 10mm pistol she offers him.

"You're the boss, boss."

In the terminal room, which separates Raul's room from the outside, is a somehow smaller woman than the first, dressed in brown robes. She looks up from toying with the impressive gauntlet she wears on her right hand.

"Hey! Good to see the damsel is safe," she says with a bright grin. "We're your knights in shining power armor."

"And what a quick and speedy rescue you've arranged for me," Raul drawls.

"Oh, I like you," she laughs. "This group is way too sarcastic as it is, but you'll fit in fine."

With that she knocks on the metal door behind her, and for the first time in a long time, Raul is allowed to leave his personal prison without having his life threatened.

Outside of the room is a woman wearing a cowboy hat waiting with a stern-looking man in a red beret, neither of whom look as chipper as the brown-robed woman. Cowboy Hat is _scowling_ , actually, until she notices Raul. Her brows raise in mild surprise.

"Oh, wow. Wasn't expecting…"

"A handsome old Mexican ghoul?" Raul supplies. "No one ever does."

"Cass," the Courier interrupts. "Anything?"

Cowboy Hat shakes her head and opens her mouth to reply, and then there's an unfortunately familiar roar behind them.

The group spins to face the sound as the air around the opposite corner of the building ripples with the telltale cloak of Stealth Boy use, and suddenly two Nightkin appear and lunge for them with dual yells.

"Shit, back up!" the Courier orders, as if going forward is a legitimate option. "Veronica!"

Hands grip each of Raul's arms tightly and he doesn't fight it as he's tugged all the way back to the cover of Black Mountain's unusually unmanned radio tower. He looks back when he's released and sees Cowboy Hat – Cass – and the Courier, who have both jumped behind what little cover they could find and have begun taking shots at the newly visible Nightkin. Veronica is still near the building that was once Raul's prison, darting around furiously and delivering powerful blows to the hulking creatures.

Raul worries for her being so close to the Nightkin, but he looks around him and realizes that this is a coordinated defense. He feels the pistol in his hand and shakes off his bewilderment at what's going on around him, and finally pulls the gun up to take the best shots he can manage. It feels strange, but good, to be able to make use of his sharpshooting skills again after so long, but he has no time to relish in it.

Red Beret, who was the one to yank Raul into cover and who hasn't fired at all since the chaos began, finally takes a shot. Before Raul can even blink, one of the Nightkin is falling to the ground with a bullet hole clear in the middle of its forehead. With a keenly-aimed punch, Veronica manages to bring the other down by delivering a hard strike to the of side its knee, giving everyone the opportunity to lay into it with their guns and finally take it down.

Silence hangs in the air from the aftershock of the surprisingly short fight. Everyone cautiously stands and begins to scan their surroundings for more threats. They all start to slowly come together in the middle area between the prison building and the radio tower.

And then there's another, third roar.

" _Grandma's back!_ " something yells, and Raul jumps back at the familiar scratch and gravel of a mutant's voice. He looks around at the others frantically, bracing for imminent death. They all appear to be just as taken aback as he is, alerted.

Thundering footfalls pound the ground and Raul finally sees the Nightkin, one that he has never seen before, charging towards the group. It's dressed… like a farmer, but he's seen his fair share of strange behaviors from Nightkin.

Before it can get any closer, Raul draws his weapon and aims straight for its head. It halts almost immediately and takes a defensive stance, which is… odd, to say the least.

"Leo isn't going to be very happy with you pointing that at me!" it says.

"No!" The Courier darts forward, running straight for the Nightkin, and Raul has to wonder: _is she crazy_? Apparently so, because she jumps directly in front of it and faces Raul, spreading her arms and legs out as much as possible in a futile attempt to shield the mutant, who was probably double her size. "Lily's a friendly!"

"A _friendly_?" Raul repeats with a bitter laugh. " _Mija_ , you've got a warped sense of the word 'friendly'."

"No, I swear!" she insists, holding her hands up higher. "I know it can be… difficult to believe, but Lily's one of us, I promise."

"Best grandma I've ever had," Veronica chirps from behind Raul. "I mean, the only one, really, but still."

"Aw, pumpkin, you don't need to protect Grandma like that," the Nightkin says, gently placing a large hand on the Courier's head. "I understand the poor man's concerns. Tabitha was never very nice."

Raul's aim slowly wavers and eventually drops when he sees how calm the Courier really is with the Nightkin. He mumbles an apology to everyone as they gather around.

"No, it's alright, Raul. It's my fault," the Courier apologizes. He meets her eyes and sees the sincerity and worry that bleeds into her voice. "I really should have thought for two seconds about the situation. It's kind of obvious that I should have mentioned we have a Nightkin with us. I didn't think about it."

"It's okay," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I've only been imprisoned, threatened by, and forced to serve Nightkin for a few years now. I'm sure I'll get over it."

"I'm so sorry, Raul," she replies quietly, eyes downcast. "If it's too much of a problem, we can escort you to wherever you want and then we'll be on our way."

He regrets his snark, just a little bit. This woman and her group are the first people besides Tabitha that he's seen in so long, having risked their very lives just to help him, and despite her oversight, he is incredibly thankful to the Courier for what she's done.

"As much as I hate to admit it, these old bones wouldn't last long out there on my own," he says. "I'd just be waiting for someone else to show up and kill me. This seems like the better option. I don't really mind too much."

He kind of _does_ mind, but with how passive this mutant ( _Lily_ , he reminds himself) has been even thus far, he supposes that he can work through the trauma. He's seen far worse in his two centuries of life, anyway.

The Courier eyes him warily, distrusting that he could possibly be okay with this. She's smart, really. But he's not going to make a fuss about this right now while they're still very much on Black Mountain.

"Alright," she concedes when he says nothing more, slowly nodding. "Alright, then. I suppose I'd feel better this way, knowing that you're going to be safer with me than on your own."

Cass barks out a sharp laugh at that, drawing all eyes to her. She glances around at everyone and shrugs.

"What? Come on, I can't be the only one who sees the irony in that."

"I sure missed it," Veronica says, looking around to make sure everyone else is just as confused as she is.

"Cass…," the Courier starts.

"Don't you 'Cass' me, Little Miss Vegas. If he's coming, after all this, he deserves a little bit of a heads-up for what he's _really_ getting himself into, don't you think?"

Raul turns to frown at the Courier. "What have I not been told about now?"

The Courier sucks in a sharp breath. Her eyes are distant as she ponders her thoughts, and for a moment Raul thinks that she might not say anything at all. Then she exhales with a tired laugh and shrugs at no one in particular. She tucks her long bangs behind an ear and Raul sees a pale, messy scar on her forehead that had been hidden before.

He knows a bullet wound when he sees one.

"A lot of things," she breathes, to which Cass rolls her eyes at but nods in agreement to. "I'm kind of in the middle of every single piece of political bullshit that's going down in the region right now. And trust me, I didn't go _looking_ to be a part of it, but at this point it's pretty difficult to pull myself out of everything. Morals, and all that."

"What you need to know," Cass says matter-of-factually, "is that she's a huge power player in Vegas and because of that we've all been harassed relentlessly by everyone imaginable. Good guys, bad guys, and everyone in between."

"There's a lot going on right now," Veronica adds. "It's got pros and cons, you know."

The Courier only meets Raul's eyes with a sheepish smile and gives another, smaller shrug.

"I don't ask to get involved in every mess I come across. It just sort of happens."

"That's a good attitude to take about it," is all Raul says to that. He's seen people like the Courier before, who can't help but be helpful and end up in trouble because of it. But this time, he's the one being helped, and it reminds him of the things he used to do in his angrier, more vengeful days.

He weighs his options with four pairs of eyes on him and decides:

Why the hell not?

"It's a hard bargain you drive, there. Do I risk my life on my own, or with company?" Raul drawls thoughtfully, with his own personal brand of sarcasm. Her face changes to prepare for rejection, and he shrugs. "At least there's _some_ safety in numbers, boss."

The Courier beams at him and he doesn't know why she would be so happy at the acceptance of his travelling with her, but he allows just the slightest of smiles in return.

"Not to rush anyone or anything," Veronica pipes up, drawing attention to the sun that has yet to touch the horizon, "but we should really skedaddle."

"Yeah, I'm not crazy about the idea of camping on the top of – or even remotely near, for that matter – a mutant-infested, unstable, radioactive mountain," Cass adds, and Red Beret (whose name Raul has yet to find out) grunts a sound of barely audible agreement.

Raul's newfound group carefully but quickly makes its way down the charred and rubble-covered mountainside. He decides to hang towards the back so he can observe the behaviors of his rescuers. Quiet music plays from the device on the Courier's wrist. She and Veronica talk and laugh together softly at times, while Cass merely listens and smiles whenever appropriate.

That part is fairly calm and peaceful. Red Beret, however, is fidgety. Raul suspects it has something to do with his presence. He glances back at Raul every now and then during his constant scanning of their surroundings – Raul can't tell if the man thinks he'll slink away or suddenly decide to attack the group or what, but he can't find it in him to blame the man for his caution. If anything, he appreciates being with someone who is always looking out for the safety of the group.

They finally leave the mountain and Raul loses himself in the sights and sounds of _freedom_. He doesn't even notice that someone has slowed down to walk alongside him until a voice startles him from his daydreaming.

"Word of advice," Cass murmurs to him softly, secretly. "Keep your head on straight while you're with us."

He turns to look at her, but she's staring straight ahead of them as if nothing were wrong. Her bored expression doesn't match the warning in her voice.

"Figuratively, or literally?" Raul asks, glancing at the giggling Courier ahead. Cass huffs out a humorless laugh.

"Both. Either way, you'll be fucked."

* * *

 **A/N:** If you ever want to see my art or talk about Fallout, hit me up on Tumblr (sanguineapocalypse).


End file.
